


Trip No Further (What's to Come is Still Unsure)

by ninaunn



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fairies, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Goblins, Kings & Queens, Politics, Sisters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:20:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninaunn/pseuds/ninaunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An offering had been made, a declaration had been sung, and it had been answered in kind. Music was the food of love, after all.</p><p>Marianne steps into her birthright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Let me not to the marriage of true minds

No matter how unconventional Marianne had sought to make herself, there were some things embedded into faery nature that could not be denied. A sharp awareness of the rise and fall of the sun, for instance, or reading the curve of a breeze. It was instinct, maybe, or some inherited memory from times long past, knotted into the sparks of faery thought.

Song, too, was wound into the fibre of their being. To call or calm, to shout rage or happiness, or to grieve. No matter that her melodies had turned forceful, her voice sharp and direct and undoubtedly her own, Marianne’s emotions still burst with song at her guarded heart. No matter that for so long she had sung alone. 

And yet, after one, long fateful night, she found that the thin, fragile note of hope that had begun to bloom in the moonlight had, with the morning sun, burst forth from her throat and off her tongue and into something infinitely more powerful and frightening.

At that long awaited dawn, none could mistake the raw joy in the ballad sung by the Faery Heir Apparent. Even goblins, who warbled to establish dominance in the jumbled hierarchy of the Dark Forest, had recognised the song for what it was. 

Not that Marianne cared; she only desired the attention of one, particularly lanky goblin.

Faeries were quick tempered creatures; their elation and sorrow came fast and strong. The past night and day had brought them aplenty to Marianne, and none were more surprised than she at their conclusion.

Though scraped and bruised from wrestling against Roland, the Faery Heir danced around the Bog King like a springling. For all her aches and pains, as Bog smiled and pulled her towards him, the quickening of her heart banished all other thoughts from her mind.

Despite their roughness, the Bog King's lips were gentle on hers. Her nose bumped his chin from their odd angle, and Marianne grinned. The pulse of their song still beat strong in her blood and drew stars from where they touched. 

Below, the raucous celebrations of elves and goblins cheered them on, while faery soldiers whirled around their princess, swept up by the heart-song. 

Those back at the palace might doubt the wild tales that would soon reach them, but the faeries that had marched into the Dark Forest would swear to the sun and back the certainty of what had happened. 

An offering had been made, a declaration had been sung, and it had been answered in kind. 

Music was the food of love, after all, and on it sang. 

Still humming, Marianne reached for his craggy face with bony fingers. Bog twitched as she stroked his cheeks, and Marianne pulled him closer to claim more kisses. He answered her with breathy laugh, which she sought to swallow. 

Dark hands traced the skin at her shoulders like she was made of spider-silk, leaving goose-bumps in their wake. When had she last felt this gentle? With tender fingertips, the almighty Bog King tugged at Marianne's arms to right her position. 

Of course, Marianne angled her wings too sharply for the turn, crashing face first into the collar of his carapace as her legs swung out wildly. Bog latched onto her elbows and Marianne laughed as they both spun through the air. Two sets of wings flared as the lovers righted themselves, softly twirling as they descended.

Marianne pressed her chuckle into Bog's neck; his resulting sound was relief, embarrassment and need all woven into one, and she found it delightful. His nails tickled at the top of her forearms, even as she pulled back to beam at him. Her thumbs caressed at the crease of his elbows.

"Nice save,” Marianne told him, enjoying the way his face flushed dark. 

Somewhere behind them, her father's ears twitched and his mother cooed in triumph. Was he very displeased, she wondered? If the Faery King intended to object, he was fast running out of time. The vanguard of his soldiers, the elvish militia and a lair-full of goblins had all borne witness to Bog and Marianne’s heart-song.

The hands holding her squeezed, and Marianne looked in wonder at bright eyes filled with emotion. 

"This is-" 

"I never thought-" 

They both blushed this time, eyes darting away to some innocuous thing. It had been so long since she had let herself want, let herself need. To see that mirrored in another made Marianne’s chest tighten painfully. 

Both maintained a desperate monkey-grip on the other.

"You first," Bog insisted with a short nod. She grimaced. 

"Oh..." 

How could she verbalise the furnace in her heart? Marianne’s tongue felt thick with honey and she scraped her nails along the edge where chitin met his forearms. His shoulder plates flared in pleased response. 

Behind them, someone whistled, and Marianne's amber eyes shot their audience a rueful look. From Bog’s renewed blush, her bet was on Griselda.

"Quite a big turn out," she murmured. Bog nervously cleared his throat. 

"Yeah." 

"Pity they trashed the venue." 

"Yeah." His tone was emphatically not pleased.

Marianne's wings drooped as she looked down at their joined arms. After all, it had been faery soldiers that had brought down the mossy stump that had been his fortress. 

Even if he had stolen away a princess, that had been done in response to the trespasses and thievery of a Field denizen.

Oh Sunny, Marianne thought in fond despair, you’ve really managed to tangle things up.

The truth was that Marianne had no clue as to how such things were answered in the Dark Forest, save that it was probably dramatic. No matter his intentions, she had no doubt that Sunny’s life would become infinitely more uncomfortable before the day was out.

What would this mean for their people, for them? Marianne's dark lips turned down. None had yet come to blows, and a burgeoning love had distracted goblin and fae folk alike from the mess that was their political affiliation. Such a delicate impasse could only last for so long. 

Clenching her teeth, she tried to imagine what her people could possibly offer Bog as recompense for the ill acts done against him. Sunny had stolen a forbidden potion from a prisoner, and Roland had brought an army to his doorstep and brought down his lair. What could possibly be given to make up for such wanton destruction? 

For a moment, an unassailable gulf stretched between them, and something deep in her heart ached at the thought.

"Marianne." It was not a question or a demand, but a soft request, filled with raw sincerity. She blinked, and met the Bog King’s steady gaze. "A lot has happened." 

"Too much?" She hated the tremor in her voice, hated her doubt. 

"No," Bog answered firmly, and tears of relief prickled at the corners of her eyes. However there was no avoiding the grim expression that crawled over his brow. "Never. But there is much to be done, and I have business with your father."

Her wings flared. 

"Yes, I imagine so," Marianne agreed, biting at her bottom lip. 

Since his unannounced arrival, the Faery King had kept his wary distance. His hesitation had surprised Marianne; fear for his daughters ought to make any faery rash. She supposed she should be grateful he hadn’t set his Thorn-guard onto Bog upon arrival. Who knew what her father thought of the rapid fire of events he’d caught the tail end of? 

"Let me talk to him first," Marianne insisted. 

His lips thinned, but the Bog King nodded his assent. A pang thrummed in Marianne's heart at the shadow in his eyes, and was startled to recognise it as sorrow. She was not alone in her worry about what was to come. Her ears twitched; that their mood had changed so fast with the mantle of duty brought on a terror that made her fingers tremble. 

Already she ached for their moment of joy, dancing in the air of the early morning light. That it should be so fleeting- 

Darting her hands up, Marianne latched onto Bog's unfurling collar and dragged his face down to hers. His long nose pressed sharply against her cheek as she caught his lips in a searing, open mouthed kiss. Sparks jolted through her nerves like a thunder-storm when he returned it hungrily; large hands slid over her hips to pull her close against him. 

No, Marianne had held the world at bay for long enough. She would not let their moment of joy fade so easily. 

Stroking the length of his throat with her knuckles, the Faery Heir nipped Bog’s bottom lip and smirked when he jolted back with a wide stare. 

"There’s lots to be done, but this day is not near over," she told him hotly, teeth bared. "And neither are we." 

Bog’s hold on her strengthened, as if he feared to lose her. His blue eyes glittered with hope and awe. For all his size and spikiness, the Bog King almost looked frail. Such a fragile emotion to mark his lined face, so thin like a newly healed scar and precious like a star. Something flush and fierce swelled under her skin. To herself, Marianne vowed to protect him and his gentleness with every ounce of her being.

With spindly fingers, she cupped his jaw and glared at him, letting her passion and protectiveness shine through her amber eyes.

The smile that slowly grew on Bog’s face seemed to Marianne the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. 

"Aye, I’ll wager not," Bog said hoarsely, catching her curious fingers with his own. She did not miss the way his head and shoulders shivered, as if her ministrations had left him tender. 

Dropping a shy kiss to her knuckles, the Bog King bowed to her from the waist. She almost cuffed him for the absurd gesture, but settled for rolling her eyes instead.

Bog inclined his head at her exasperation, then flared his wings and leapt into to air. 

"Show's over," he barked at their audience. The goblins groaned and shuffled and were suddenly very keen to be elsewhere. A distracted nervousness came over the Field-folk; they looked toward their king for guidance, but he merely watched the display with deliberate passivity. 

Bog swooped low to retrieve his staff from the lizard, rolling in the air to snarl at his loitering subjects. 

“Rough-backs! Hoppers! Greebles! Salvage what you can from this miserable wreck. Don’t eat the stores!” Bog punctuated each instruction with a wipe sweep of his staff, scattering goblins eager to do his bidding. “Snouters, sniff us out a new hive!” 

Marianne laughed at his flair and his roaring as she too leapt into flight.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I debated so long with writing this, and posting it. I kinda feel that my writing style might be a bit too...formal for the general mood of Strange Magic, but what the heck! More chapters to come, dealing faery/goblin relations and the problem of the love potion.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.  
> 


	2. Admit impediments. Love is not love

Rolling lazily in the air, the Faery Heir smiled at Griselda’s gleeful wave and her sister’s sweet delight. At her approach, the Faery King rose from the stone where he sat and shooed away his protective Thorn-guard.

“Hey Dad.” Marianne landed before him, and was immediately swept up in a bone-crushing hug.

“Marianne!” There was a hitch in her father’s voice. “You’re safe!”

She fought the embrace for only a moment, before returning it with gusto. Her father’s beard tickled her cheek, and she pulled it lightly like she had as a child.

“Of course I am,” Marianne mocked gently, watching the worry that marked his face. “I told you I was strong.”

Dagda the Faery King scoffed and tweaked his daughter’s nose.

“You went haring off into the Dark Forest alone,” he scolded as she scrunched her face up at the admonishment. “I didn’t know what to think!”

She huffed, but there was no real ire to it.

“And now?”

“Now?” Her father sighed, tucking a stray lock of her hair behind an ear. “Now I’m happy enough to see you safe. And undusted.”

Marianne raised a brow. He’d schooled her too well not to notice what had been left unsaid.

“But not in love, huh?” She pulled back and folded her arms. 

Dadga grunted, and cast a glance at the motley mix the dawn had welcomed them to. Marianne followed his gaze. A large elf was rubbing the lizard’s nose fondly, and one of the bulkier goblins sported an elf-made jacket. At the sight of Griselda and the Sugar Plum Faery with their heads bent together in conspiracy, his ears twitched. 

“Well, I can’t say it’s what I expected to find when I got here,” murmured the Faery King. “With so much going on, frankly I’m still wrapping my head around it all.”

In the distance, Bog gestured wildly at a mushroom, only to turn and catch her eye. Marianne waggled her eyebrows, and he blushed and spun away.

Chuckling, she turned back to meet the look of censure on her father’s face. 

“What?” She shrugged off his disapproval and waved at her errant sister. “You should have seen Dawn before Sunny showed up.” 

A little way away, Dawn kissed her new beau’s nose, and the lines around Dagda’s eyes and mouth tightened. Marianne was no stranger to her father’s exasperation, but his expression spoke louder than mere displeasure.

“What is it?” Her tone was terse; her father noticed, and rubbed at his temple at the set of her mouth. 

“There is a lot to consider, love aside,” Dagda answered her eventually, wings fluttering in agitation. 

Marianne stepped back from him, shock feeding into anger, even as a part of her mind said to mark his words. Had she not also worried over the consequences of today? But it was to do with Dawn, to do with Sunny and Dawn, and Marianne clenched her fists as she faced her father.

“So now you don’t want us to be in love?” Her voice felt harsh, and her mind was whirling, trying to find out the train of her father’s thoughts and match them with her view of him. 

Marianne hadn’t thought he’d be biased. Well, too biased. Granted, there were differences. Elves, faeries and goblins were all very diverse creatures, yet they all heard the heart-song. Certainly there would be those in the faery court who would grumble, but surely her father valued his daughters’ happiness more than that? 

The Faery King must have seen her turmoil; for a short moment he looked wounded at her doubt. The expression was soon gone, replaced by a sadder one, more solemn.

“Marianne,” Dagda began, reaching out to hold her fists. “My personal reservations aside, there are greater worries than this. Have you even considered the ramifications if either you or Dawn had been doused successfully with that potion?”

All her outrage died as a cold wave of comprehension chilled her bones. It clicked, and Marianne could do little but stare at her father with wide, horrified eyes. 

If Roland had dusted her, and she had not had an unfurling seed of new love already in her heart, then she would have loved him. She would have married him, kissed his lying mouth and sung his praises as he charged off on whatever warmongering whim he wished to drag the kingdom into.

Marianne knew well the bitterness of loving Roland, but under the potion’s influence, she would not have cared.

Her father tried to reach for her, but Marianne batted his hands away. A sour taste had risen in her throat, and she snarled as if to banish her ill imaginings.

“I suppose I do owe you an apology,” the Faery King said heavily. “I didn’t trust in your opinion of Roland. To do what he tried to do, speaks volumes of his true character, and my ill judgement.”

Arms wrapped around herself, Marianne shook her head. Roland had fooled them all; his mask of perfect chivalry had been flawless. Although attitudes toward love potions were laxer in the Fields than the Dark Forest, the line of succession was sacred. To seek a love potion to gain a crown dishonestly was unforgivable.

Sunny. Sweet, stupid Sunny, who had only wanted Dawn to ease his pining heart. Marianne had no doubts that Roland had conned him into it, but the fact remained that it had been the elf who had stolen into the Dark Forest to find a love potion to dust her baby sister who just so happened to be a princess of the fields.

And to dust her, the Heir Apparent.

Sunny probably hadn’t even considered what it would have meant to steal another’s love in that manner. She hoped he hadn’t, she desperately hoped he wasn’t every bit as conniving as that cowardly flea-son, Roland. Dawn deserved better than that.

Something in her shuddered, and Marianne could not bear to face her father, much less look over to where her sister happily sat hand in hand with Sunny.

 _Oh Dawn,_ Marianne thought, scrunching up her face to hold off her tears, _my sweet, sweet sister._

“Marianne?” 

“No, it’s ok,” she answered her father, blinking hard as she rubbed her arms. “I…I get it.”

When Bog had been the subject of Dawn’s artificial affections, it had seemed almost comical. He’d been as horrified by it as Marianne. But the thought of someone forcing that love onto her sister for their own intentions raised her hackles. 

Her anger shifted to dread. Would Dawn even attempt to understand why Sunny had to be punished, or would she be crushed by his betrayal? 

From Marianne’s throat came a noise of formless distress.

“This will hurt Dawn,” Marianne whispered. “So, so much.”

Her father’s face mirrored her distress.

“And that thought that breaks my heart,” lamented Dagda, looking sadly towards his youngest daughter. Marianne had never known him to sound so bitter, even after the Fields had lost the queen. “Yet if Roland is to answer for attempting to love-dust a princess, than Sunny must like-wise be held accountable.”

“Oh stars,” Marianne muttered; no matter how they looked at it, her sister’s new found happiness was about to be shattered.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Being a King interferes with being a father, who knew? This will be discussed with Dawn eventually. I've a vague idea on how it's going to play out. One of the things that made me wonder was how the faeries would actually view the attempted love dusting of Marianne and Dawn. They all look pretty horrified when Roland tried it at the climax.
> 
> A lot of this fic is going to be dialogue. Hope you guys don't mind.
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	3. Which alters when it alteration finds

Father and daughter stood wordlessly as they thought on how to hurt Dawn the least. Her sister had brought light into both their lives at times when despair and grief had left them hollow.

Dawn looked so happy, chatting away at her oldest friend as he looked on in adoration. She practically shone. A hard lump formed in Marianne’s throat.

A soft buzzing sounded behind her, and the Faery Heir turned to see Bog warily approach them. Staff held high, his steps were long as he did his best to loom menacingly over the Thorn-guard lingering around their king. 

“Marianne?” The Bog King’s voice was soft. Worried. For her.

Through her distress, a tingling heat unfurled in her heart. With an unsteady smile, Marianne offered him her palm. The haste with which he grasped it was almost comical if it hadn’t given her so much relief. 

Bog’s gaze lingered, still wide with worry but softened by their contact. Marianne pressed her lips together and tilted her head, clasping his fingers with as much strength as she could. Relief flickered in his eyes; he’d seen her distress, but knew it was not for them. Bog returned the squeeze.

Beside them, her father cleared his throat. 

The business with Dawn and Sunny would have to wait; this was a meeting of kings.

Marianne tugged on Bog’s hand, and he stepped closer to her side. The lanky goblin stretched himself to his full height as the older faery carefully regarded him.

“Faery King,” Bog’s brogue seemed more pronounced as he addressed her father.

“Bog King,” Dagda answered, sounding reserved.

The silence between them was thin. A strained hush had fallen over the subjects of both monarchs. Marianne could see them all peering at this rare encounter.

_How long has it been,_ she wondered distantly, _since the monarchs of our kingdoms have met?_

Finally, her father broke their stalemate. Turning away from Bog’s unflinching stare, he coughed roughly into his hand.

“Well met,” Dagda said. 

“Yer have marched an army into the heart of my land,” Bog replied dryly.

Dagda’s bushy eyebrows came together; Marianne recognised the cross flush on her father’s cheeks. 

“Now see here,” the Faery King began, and Marianne was pleased to see her father show his spine. He did have one, under all that belly. Dagda thrust a finger in the tall goblin’s direction. “You kidnapped my daughter.”

Bog bristled, and shot her a sly glance.

“You set the other one on me.”

Scowling, Marianne pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger. The corner of Bog’s mouth twitched, and he ran a thumb over her knuckle. She tutted, but stopped. Her father, on the other hand, just looked torn. 

“A great wrong has been done against you by those under my command,” conceded Dagda, though his words were stiff. “I will not claim ignorance to all of it, but to some, I was unaware.”

“I will have satisfaction from them responsible,” growled Bog.

The Faery King did not flinch. Drawing up his considerable bulk, Dagda met the tall goblin’s stony gaze with one of his own.

“As would I, or have you forgotten that these trespasses were done with the intent to love-dust my daughters?”

This time Bog looked away, shame flickering in his expression. Marianne tugged gently at his hand, but got no response. 

Did he feel guilty for leaving her vulnerable to Roland’s intentions? It had only been Bog’s blind, protective reaction that had prevented the potion from dusting her in his throne room. Protection she’d only needed because he’d ordered her restrained.

“No.” His sneer drew out the word like a curse, and Bog snapped his teeth with angry relish. “And yet, it is not your stronghold that now lies in ruins!”

Sighing at the muddle, Marianne scrutinized Bog as he replaced his fears with fury. It was, she realised, the only way he knew how to hide his hurt. 

“Bog,” she murmured before her father could respond to his hostile tone. She squeezed his hand, though a flicker of his fingers was all she got in return.

_I’m here,_ she wanted to say, _you don’t need to fear for me._ Yet, her tongue stayed still; this confrontation with her father was not the place to lay bare Bog’s terror. 

He refused to look at her, mouth cut in a severe grimace and wings buzzing as they awaited the Faery King’s answer.

“And how,” Dagda began, stepping closer with his palms open, “would you have us make amends?”

The Bog King recoiled, silenced by his surprise. 

A wave of love and pride for her father washed over Marianne. Of all the infinite ways in which conflict loomed over this encounter, the Faery King had instead reached out to the Dark Forest to make peace.

Even with his Thorn-guard and soldiers at the ready, her father had chosen amity.

Bog still scowled, of course, but the knife’s edge he’d teetered on faded. Cracking his neck, the ruler of the Dark Forest appraised the Faery King. 

To think that Bog would be put off by her father’s sincerity almost made her smile. 

Hardly surprising, she reconsidered. How quickly had he doubted her intentions? Marianne knew that her lover held little faith in the good will of others.

When she tugged on his arm, Bog shook his head and cleared his throat.

“Our winter stores are near destroyed,” he started gruffly. “You will replenish them.”

“Of course,” Dagda agreed immediately. The frown on Bog’s leafy brow deepened.

“I will have a weapon, faery-made, for each soldier who has marched on my land.”

The Faery King nodded his assent.

“And,” Bog’s voice hitched, and finally, he glanced her way. “I would have Marianne…free to visit…if she should so wish.”

Marianne’s wings fluttered with pleasure. Her father was enough of a diplomat not to let his misgivings bleed into his expression, though his beard did bristle.

“Very well.”

Both monarchs stared cagily at the other. Marianne bit her lip and reminded herself that one could not move mountains in a single night.

Yet, there was no time like the present to start.

“And we’ll help you rebuild!” Marianne stepped between them, sweeping back her fringe with a flick of her wrist. A smug smirk met the wide eyes of her father and lover.

“Marianne!”

“What? No!” 

Both kings screeched in unison. Dagda had stepped back with the look of a drowning man. Puffing out his cheeks and gesturing wildly, Bog’s hands flailed. She laughed at the two of them.

“We dinnae need your help,” hissed the Bog King, indignant at the very thought of faery aid.

Leaning in close, Marianne battered her eyes at him. 

“No?” she asked, before poking him hard in the chest. He glared, unimpressed. Taking his apathy as a challenge, Marianne sidled closer. Leaning an elbow on his shoulder, she walked her fingers up his chest and hummed. “Wouldn’t you like it?”

“No…uh…” Bog gulped, hands hovering in the air like he didn’t know where to put them. “Maybe?”

It was amazing how adorable Bog looked when flustered.

“I’d have to supervise, of course.” Letting her voice turn husky, Marianne traced the bob of Bog’s throat, causing his cheeks to darken and his fingers to fidget. His ice-blue gaze tracked her every move. If that didn’t make her pulse jump, than all sensation was lost to her. 

The corners of her mouth quirked upwards, and Marianne flicked his chin and span away.

“Our borough has lasted six generations!” She told Bog over her shoulder, laughing as he spluttered and tried to shake off his discomposure. “Use our knowledge to build something that will last! Think of the floral themed friezes!”

“Bah!”

Leaving him to mutter darkly, Marianne skipped towards her father. 

“It would be good practise in diplomatic relations and people management, right Dad?”

Dagda looked as if the sky falling would cause him less trouble than his eldest daughter and her wild ideas. 

“Marianne, do you really want to commit to this now?” The Faery King’s tone suggested he knew his hope was a futile one.

“What? Yes!” She whirled on her father, hands on hips and expression defiant. “It’s a good idea!”

“It’s a risky one.” 

“Which is why it will help me become a better queen!”

“Oh!” Dagda threw his hands up in the air and shook his head. “Of all the-“

Marianne’s eyes narrowed. Her father was a cautious soul, she knew. Especially when it came to the safety of his daughters. So, was this resistance out of worry for her, distaste at the idea of collaborating more closely with their goblin neighbours, or fear she would neglect her own kingdom? It could even be all three.

“You said yourself that we needed to make amends,” she argued. The demands Bog had asked for, the food and weapons, would take time to fulfil, but would not overly inconvenience the Fields. The status quo between the two kingdoms would remain; separate and ignorant and afraid.

Vaguely, Marianne was aware that Bog had finished his cursing and was now hesitating at her back.

“Yes,” The Faery King raised his bushy eyebrows and gestured wildly to the forest around them. “But I didn’t mean you moving into the Dark Forest to make house!”

Bog coughed, as Marianne’s own brows nearly reached her hairline.

“What then?” she snapped. “It’s not making amends if it costs nothing!”

A stricken look crossed her father’s face.

“I don’t want it to cost you!” he cried, eyes wide and worried. “The kingdom, our people, need you. I…need you.”

For a moment all Marianne could hear was the steady thrum of her pulse. Dagda was many things, a king, a father, a diplomat. In that moment, she saw that he was afraid.

“Dad…”

“No, Marianne,” he stopped her, straightening his back so as to scold her better. “You can’t be seen to neglect your kingdom for the Dark Forest-”

Unfortunately for her father, she’d outgrown that trick years ago.

“I won’t,” Marianne cut in. “That’s Bog’s domain.”

The Faery King made a fretful noise. One of his hands rose, as if to touch her face, but it dropped half way at her frown. Dagda’s ears quivered as he struggled to find his words.

“Marianne, you…you’ve so much courage,” his tone became tender, threaded with pride and exasperation. “But you so rarely stop to think-”

Purple wings flared as she spread her arms wide.

“I don’t need to think, not about this,” Marianne declared, looking back to catch Bog’s eye and drag him forward by the arm. “I know.”

She didn’t miss Bog’s sharp inhale at her declaration, or her father’s fallen grimace. It didn’t matter that for years there had been only mistrust and dark whispers between their two kingdoms. She didn’t care; Marianne would shout her declaration a thousand times if it meant they both believed it.

Silence hung between the three of them, but it was not hostile. It was hesitant, almost contemplative. For so long, Marianne had wanted to be free of fear, to free her people from their stagnation and help them grow. Here, between the three of them, there was a chance for that. If only her father would stop fretting like a mother-bird. If only Bog stopped looming over them like an angry, awkward pine-cone. 

At last, Dagda exhaled heavily as he moved back to sit on his perch.

“It won’t be easy, Marianne, juggling these responsibilities,” intoned the Faery King. “I…with Dawn…I’ll be needing your help.”

“I know, Dad, and you have it. But if I’m to improve relations between our peoples, then I may as well start now.”

Her father looked down at his hands and sighed. Stepping towards him, Marianne knelt and took his long hands into her own.

“Dad,” Marianne smiled gently. “This will be a good thing, you’ll see.”

Dagda ran a hand through his beard and huffed, before giving a short nod.

“Very well,” The concession seemed to hurt him. “If the Bog King will have your aid in rebuilding, then you may oversee our part in it.”

Marianne beamed and stood. A sharp point tapped her shoulder, and she turned to gaze at the tall, disgruntled goblin she’d somehow fallen in love with. The Heir Apparent raised a quizzical brow at the Bog King.

“No floral friezes,” Bog grumbled with puffy cheeks. His disgruntled air was spoilt by the pleased affection in his eyes.

“Huh,” Marianne huffed, tossing her fringe again. “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Bog King.”

His grimace was entirely unconvincing.

“So be it,” Bog acceded. “Just try not tae break anything else while you’re here.”

Marianne snickered, which soon melted into something more genuine when Bog carefully brushed his hand against hers.

She glanced away to see her father considering them.

This was a beginning, she told herself, and a good one.

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, with all this muddle happening, I'm worried that the mood flip floppities a little bit. To be fair, faeries seem a bit like that any way. Next chapter: an opportunity to build faery/goblin relations arises! More talking!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.  
> 


	4. Or bends with the remover to remove

Startled gasps and goblin growls emerged from the surrounding crowd.

“B.K.,” came a throaty yelp. “B.K.!”

The clink of ironbark armour and faery groans soon followed. Marianne and her company turned at the growing commotion. A stocky goblin that she vaguely recognised was waving up a lumbering group whilst calling for the Bog King.

“Sire, they’ve found them,” cried another goblin with bulging eyes. 

“The ones who wrecked the hive!” said the other.

Her heart beat faster; Marianne had an inkling about who exactly was being man-handled. Behind her, Dagda hummed with worry, as the surrounding elves crowed in to watch the latest drama. 

When she looked at Bog, his expression had again turned grim.

“Well, bring them here!” he snapped.

“Yes, sire,” the small goblin stammered, as his companion hurried up the newcomers.

Three figures in dirty, dented armour were dumped at the feet of the Bog King. Pale, anxious faces peered out from beneath filthy helmets.

A hot curl of rage swept around Marianne’s chest.

“You!” she snarled, pushing in front of Bog to thrust an accusatory finger at Roland’s lackeys. “Of course it’s you three; running around doing Roland’s dirty work for him!”

Even when she’d been in love with gnat-sucking lout, Marianne had hated the way Rye, Spelt and Millet had followed the Roland’s every whim.

The central one, Millet she thought, chuckled nervously.

“No, no, no,” he denied as his friends looked on with pleading eyes.The goblin holding the lackey bared sharp teeth. “It wasn’t like that at all, Marianne.”

“Don’t let them eat us, Marianne!” begged Spelt. 

In a beat, Marianne caught him by the collar and hauled him up to meet her angry glare.

“You’re lucky I don’t turn you all into birdfeed, after the stunt you just pulled!” hissed the Heir Apparent. “And that’s Princess Marianne to you, chump!” 

She shook Spelt fiercely, before letting him fall, trembling, at her feet. Real fear drained Rye and Millet’s faces as she made to step forward, and Marianne seethed. These blockheads had been hand in hand with Roland’s plan with the love potion. Her fists clenched. Stars, to think they’d somehow managed to bring down Bog’s lair, almost taking him with it.

Marianne shuddered, before turning away.

“If they’re still here, Roland can’t be far,” she realised, turning to Bog. His expression was oddly guarded, but at her look, his eyes narrowed and he nodded.

“Brutus, Grig,” charged Bog, pointing his amber staff at two of the larger goblins. Their ears wiggled as they stood to attention. “Get back out there and find the blond one!”

“On it,” growled Brutus as the two of them began a loping gait back to the pile of rotten wood and crumbled earth.

Marianne admired the fierce flair of Bog’s shoulder plates before Spelt shifted.

“Good luck,” the down-trodden faery muttered, and Marianne sent a glare his way. Roland’s lackey simply shrugged. “He’s long gone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Marianne, flexing her fingers.

“Uh…well,” Spelt winced before his fellows urged him on. “Roland fell in love with a…flea thing? They took off soon after.”

Her mouth dropped.

Well, that was an unexpected development.

“What!” Bog snarled; he must had caught the tail end of the conversation. The three cronies glanced at each other with clueless expressions.

What poor creature had Roland managed to ensnare? Marianne’s brow furrowed as she tried to guess at Roland’s thinking. He must have been dusted in the fall, she supposed. The question was if the love potion had distracted her former fiancé from his ambition, or fuelled it?

She studied the myriad of faces hovering around scene. Elves, she knew, enjoyed a good show. It seemed goblins did too. 

Things were as secure between the Fields and the Dark Forest as they could hope to be, given the circumstances. Regardless, there was no telling what other mischief Roland could conjure. 

Leaving Bog to menace the prisoners, Marianne turned to her approaching father. 

“Whatever happened, he needs to be found,” she growled. Noting Dagda’s concerned gaze, Marianne met it with a questioning one. “We should send some faery soldiers to scout from the air. Dad?”

The Faery king raised a quizzical brow.

“This is the Dark Forest, Marianne,” replied her father dryly, gesturing behind her with one hand. “Oughtn’t you to ask its king before sending out your soldiers?”

Embarrassment flared red in her cheeks and she winced. 

A year ago, if Marianne had made such a bold faux par, Roland would have cooed at her. For her part, Marianne would have pulled at her hair and cursed her impetuous nature and apologized until Roland called her ‘his pretty, little dunder-head’ and to leave such important decisions to him in the future. 

Just thinking about it made her teeth grind.

“Oh, right.” A worm of anxiety worried at her heart as she sheepishly turned back to the Bog King. 

He looked bemused, more than anything, head cocked at an angle as he observed her. At his feet, the three faery prisoners shot panicked glances between them as elves and goblins watched on. 

Marianne was a different faery to who she had been a year ago. And Bog was not Roland.

Clearing her throat, she crossed her arms and looked at him with raised brows.

“Bog?”

“Yes?” His response was deceptively nonchalant. 

Marianne flourished her hands and bowed deeply.

“Would His Majesty, the almighty Bog King, care for some air support in the hunt for the vain, tickle-brained scut who invaded your kingdom and destroyed your home?”

He glanced upward, passing his staff from hand to hand as if in heavy contemplation. Marianne huffed.

“Aye,” the Bog King replied, a hand on his heart. “If the Faery Heir so dearly wishes to help, who am I to deny her?”

“So generous,” the Heir Apparent scoffed. A smile graced her lips nonetheless when she pushed Bog aside. Striding forward, Marianne seized a sword from one of the Thorn-guard before approaching the faery soldiers still fluttering around the clearing.

Bending her knees, Marianne leapt into the air. Bright wings flashing, she dove into a loop to gather the faeries attention. It was time, she realised, for the Heir Apparent to make good on her lofty goals.

“Soldiers,” Marianne’s voice cut loud and clear through the din. “I want teams of three scouting the area for the faery-knight known as Roland. He is guilty of conspiring to magically influence members of the royal family, plotting to seize the Faery crown by dishonest means, and instigating conflict with a neighbouring kingdom.”

Black and white wings flared as the soldiers began to circle her. Already, she could hear them humming in unison.

 _“He better run, he better hide.”_ Their voices were subdued, waiting for her voice to sing them into action

 _“After what he tried a do to my head?”_ It came from her bones; a fierce joy and fury. Drawing the borrowed sword, Marianne raised it to the sun and flared her wings.

 _“Oh, what’d he try a do to my head?”_ Eyes bright and teeth flashing, the Faery Heir sang her soldiers into motion. Light flashed as she guided them into formation. _“Well, now I've gotta draw the line, cause he ain't gonna take my mind!”_

 _“He better run, he better hide,”_ chanted the soldiers with raised voices. _“He better leave from her sight.”_

Her pulse pounded as the faeries sung their assent. 

They danced around her in a whirl, wings flashing their out their support. Marianne grinned at their loyalty. “Remember we are working with goblins on the ground. If you see some in trouble, lend aid!”

The faery soldiers circled around her one last time as she sent them off with a sharp slash of her sword. As one body, they dipped to honour her, before shooting off into the forest.

A strange sense of satisfaction trilled through Marianne as she watched them go. Her limbs felt heavy, but alive. Sheathing her sword, she twirled at the approaching loud buzz.

The Bog King ducked out of the way and came up beside her.

“Not bad, tough girl,” said the Bog King, waggling his head as he needled her. “Or is it princess now?”

Marianne groaned and rolled her eyes.

“Only if you want to be sweet Boggy Woggy for the rest of your natural life,” she teased, fluttering closer to bump Bog’s nose with hers.

His chuckle was a relief, as were the gnarled hands that sought out her own. It felt good, to have this moment alone. A part of her was still reeling from singing of the faery soldiers.

Marianne pressed her lips against his craggy cheek and rested her forehead against his. Lazily, they spun in the air, unwilling to descend and return to the scrutiny below.

“Maybe in private,” Bog mumbled against her skin, making her mouth quirk and her ears tremble.

“I won’t forget that,” she jested, tracing the lines on his palms with her nails. Maybe it was the heart-song, or left over adrenalin, but their casual affection strung joy through every fibre of her being.

Roland had never provided comfort, never offered to ease her burdens without a word. Marianne had loved him all the same, but this feeling she had with Bog warmed her to the core.

Bog rubbed his cheek against hers, and she blew softly at his compact ear. 

The difference, Marianne supposed, was knowing that Bog had her back. Unconditional support with no judgement, which she returned. It seemed absurd that she could come to such a conclusion within the bare day and a half they’d known each other, but the sentiment rang true. 

Perhaps it had begun when they fought so well in the throne room. Or maybe when Plum had bared Bog's hurt, and she’d bared hers. Somehow, during that long, fateful night, their hearts had reached out and connected.

Marianne was almost disgusted by her sentimentality. Yet as Bog gazed up warmly and ran a tentative finger through her hair, she couldn't regret it. Her returning smile was shy.

Their noses bumped again, and Marianne drew back, laughing.

“So, what now?” she asked him.

“Well,” Bog croaked, a delightful hitch to his voice. “We could run off and leave the rabble behind?”

His look of hope was far too innocent. Marianne punched his shoulder

“Hey, that rabble includes my family,” she protested.

“Hn,” he made a non-committal sound, and merely raised a leafy brow.

“And your mother!” Marianne cried.

“My point exactly.”

She poked his long nose but said nothing. They both knew they couldn’t leave. Below them, Griselda had apparently introduced herself to the Faery King. Both Bog and Marianne let out an amused snort at the sight of the small goblin-wife chatting away at a terrified looking Dagda. Good-natured as always, the elvish militia milled about, examining the forest and its inhabitants. 

To the side, Dawn appeared to be scolding the prisoners as Sunny looked on.

A heavy stone slipped into her gut, and Marianne sighed.

“What do you want to do about those three?” she inquired.

Bog grunted, as displeased as her that their reprieve was over.

“They will answer for what they’ve done,” he replied shortly. 

Pressing her lips into a thin line, Marianne fluttered around to be face to face with him. She was the Heir Apparent, and like it or not, three of her people had wronged the Bog King. The burden of her subject's actions and fate lay on her.

“How so?” Her words were carefully blank. 

Bog’s eyes narrowed.

“By goblin law.”

Marianne inhaled sharply. There were many dark tales of what happened to those who wronged the denizens of the Dark Forest; being eaten among the most infamous.

Things have changed, Marianne reminded herself, there was no need to fear the Dark Forest, or it’s King. 

Still, there was a forbidding shape to Bog’s posture that reminded the Heir Apparent how little she knew about the ways and customs of the neighbouring kingdom. 

“Now?” 

Here, he paused. Frowning, he shook his head.

“Nae,” he said finally, looking displeased and distracted. “I must have a stronghold.”

Marianne nodded; she’d suspected as much. By Fields law, Roland and his accomplices would be imprisoned until a Rose Court could be summoned to pass judgement. Her wings dipped as she thought about what she had to say.

“You know,” Marianne began, face tight and unhappy as she met Bog’s gaze. “With them being Field folk, they are my responsibility. Well, my father’s, at least.”

They tilted away from each other, both trying to find a balance. Bog’s pinched expression was puzzled. His plates flared and settled and Marianne wrung her hands.

“They acted against me,” Bog explained. “On my ain land.”

“They also acted against me!” she cried, offering up her open palms. “Especially because of who I am. What would have happened if…if…” 

Bog’s expression turned to anxiousness, and he hovered closer. With gentle hands, he held her shoulders.

“Marianne,” he soothed, voice turning deep with passion. “For daen ye ill, I will break them, on my aith.”

 _Oh bless you,_ Marianne thought with real feeling, even as the dark edge in his tone made her shiver, _bless your jagged hide._ Bog believed that she was afraid the crimes against her would be ignored.

They would be under his mercy, by his law, and therein lay the problem.

“But that’s just it,” she explained, raising a hand to cup his face. Though Bog leant into the touch, his eyes did not leave hers. “Would it be right of me to hand my people over to your justice when I know nothing about what that means?”

That made him pause; she could see the cogs turning in his mind as he considered this new angle. A surge of affection for him swelled in Marianne’s chest.

“Hn.” He tipped his chin, considering. “If judged by your law, would my grievances be addressed?”

Hurt flickered in her eyes. True, Marianne couldn’t promise Bog the same autonomy he’d get in a trial held in the Dark Forest. Surely he knew she wouldn’t let the Rose Court short-change him?

“By faery justice, yes,” she replied simply.

Bog’s gaze dipped away, and his fingers clenched.

“And if I demand my ain? Would they be gein to me?”

Marianne’s heart stuttered, and this time, she was the one to look away.

“I…” Damn him, she couldn’t answer that. Couldn’t promise her people wouldn't react badly to a faery judged under goblin law. The lines around her mouth and brow deepened. “I don’t know.”

A throaty sigh came from Bog. One hand reached for Marianne’s as he wound their fingers together.

“I will have what I am owed,” he repeated again, looking fierce and sad all at once.

Here they were again, Marianne grimaced, on the edge of precipice that promised nothing but trouble. She pulled their clasped hands closer and tucked them under her chin. 

“Of course,” she said earnestly, wings fluttering high. “I mean, I’m not…I won’t let-“

“No,” he cut her off, and Marianne would have been afraid except for the tender cadence of his voice. “I know.”

They sunk into silence.

“ _What?_ ” An impossibly high wail cut through the air. “What do you mean he’s under arrest?”

Both snapped their gazes down to where an angry Dawn shouted at the Faery King, wings spread wide as if to cover her beau. 

“Oh, this day just doesn’t end,” Marianne hissed. Of course her father had decided to confront Dawn and Sunny on his own.

She glanced at Bog, and jerked a thumb at the growing commotion.

“That offer to run away from that still on the table?” Marianne asked. Bog snorted, but squeezed her hand. She sighed and shook her head. “The rabble it is, then.”

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Urgh, so much talking! But, Bog and Marianne do get to be dorks, so all is well. 
> 
> The lyrics that the soldiers chant are from 'You Better Run' by Pat Benetar. It was the best one I could think of that would fit Both Marianne's and the soldiers sentiment. I'm tempted to reprise it the next time she meets Roland. 
> 
> 07/08/15: Minor editing with more singing. Yay!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	5. O no! it is an ever-fixed mark

There was nothing much to say as they floated down to the commotion on the ledge. A wide circle had cleared around the Faery King, his youngest daughter and the small elf. The only creature to breach it was a fretful looking lizard. Marianne scrunched up her face in confusion head. Why on earth was it not trying to eat every being in the vicinity?

“This is Sunny, Dad!” Dawn stood in a wide stance, wildly waving her hands about the air. “How can you think of arresting him?”

Behind her, Sunny hopped on his toes as he tried to get around the wide shield of Dawn’s wings. They kept flaring, as if to put off the Thorn-guard slowly edging their way closer.

“Dawn,” Sunny began.

The Faery King had no time for what the elf had to say.

“You say that like I have no reason to,” shouted Dagda.

“Daw-wah!”

At the Faery King’s fury, the lizard surged forward. Marianne went for her sword, ready to dive into a fight. Sunny was faster, darting away from her sister to hold back the protective reptile. Surprisingly enough, it paid him heed.

“How on earth did that happen?” Marianne wondered to herself. It wasn’t until she heard Bog’s snort that she realised she’d spoken out loud.

Patting the agitated lizard's snout, Sunny soothed it with a rapid string of assurances. Oblivious to the drama behind her, Dawn’s face flushed as she continued her tirade.

“The only reason I’m seeing is that you’re being a stick in the mud about me being in love with him! I thought you would be happy for me,” she declared, ears flushed and twitching. “He broke the spell!”

Her father’s cheeks blew out as his face reddened with rage.

“Which he cast on you in the first place!”

“He didn’t mean to!”

“Oh, he meant to!” chirped Plum, a manic flash of sparkling blue between the two faeries before disappearing.

“Huh?” stuttered Dawn.

“Plum!” cried Sunny, from where he was soothing the lizard.

“See,” exclaimed Dagda triumphantly, gesturing toward the elf. “What do you suppose was he doing with the potion in the first place?”

Marianne sighed. Dawn’s hands balled into fists

“Roland must have bullied him into it!”

Their voices escalated. Groaning, Marianne rubbed her temple and glanced over to Bog.

“Any advice?”

He shuffled his shoulders and waved toward the angry, blond faery below.

“Dinnae give your sister a sword?” Bog’s mild tone belied the amusement in his eyes.

“Hah-dee-ha,” Marianne scowled, bumping into him on purpose. Rubbing his shoulder, Bog shot her a look of exaggerated hurt. She rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a sword in a minute.”

“That I should be so lucky.” Bog’s voice went low enough to make her skin shiver.

“Oh!” A blush flared up over Marianne’s cheeks, from the tips of her ears, down her neck and to her collar-bone. Her mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

“Marianne!” A furious screech broke the heated look between them. Both looked down at the small ball of anger that was Dawn. “Stop flirting with Bog and come help me stop Dad from arresting my boyfriend!”

Marianne choked, and Bog looked away, abashed. Neither could find anything to say.

Her father, though, had his own words at the ready.

“Marianne,” Dagda shouted. “Help explain to your sister why Sunny must be held accountable.”

“Oh boy,” Marianne muttered, before swooping down to her family.

Up close, both were in high colour and temper. Wing’s spread threateningly, Dawn and her father burst into argument as soon as her feet touched the ground.

“He’s trying-“

“You know why-“

“-want’s to imprison Sunny!”

“-has to be done!”

“Well I don’t-”

“If you’d just listen-“

“Enough!” bellowed Marianne, her own wings flashing out in sharp violet. It was enough to shut them both up. The Heir Apparent looked between her sister and father. Distress marked Dawn’s face as much as worry marked Dagda’s, and Marianne hurt at the sight of their conflict.

She tried not to show it. Take charge, she told herself. With a stern frown and hands on her hips, Marianne studied her warring family. 

“Now,” she said through clenched teeth. “Have either of you considered asking Sunny what happened?”

“We know what happened!” snapped Dagda.

“Dad!” Her glare was enough to silence him. She hoped it was because he trusted her. Taking a breath, Marianne settled her wings and turned to her sister. “Dawn. Let’s hear what he has to say. Sunny?”

The elf quailed under the sudden scrutiny. A deep, gurgling growl came from the large lizard beside him.

“Down Lizzy,” he said, before glancing up at the rest of them whilst wringing his hands. “Oh, ah-hah. Well…”

Curled in on himself, the poor elf looked wretched. Marianne pressed her lips in a thin line at the pang of sorrow that hit her. She’d known Sunny since he’d been a springling. Had watched him and Dawn play dash and grab under the daisies.

Bog stepped forward, setting his staff behind her as if to cover her back. 

“You were the one who stole into my dungeon with a primrose petal for a love potion?” The Bog King’s posture was rigid and menacing.

It was a sore spot, she knew, that the potion had been stolen with so seemingly little effort. Thinking back on the ease with which the goblins had kidnapped Dawn, Marianne pressed her lips together. Maybe security was something that both kingdoms needed to work on.

The elf viably quailed.

“Yeah, that was me.”

A small hiccup of hurt came from her sister; Dawn had curled her hands around her face as if to hide. Marianne clenched her fists, as much as she wanted to go to Dawn, she had to ensure that Sunny had his say.

“Why?” Betrayal crept into the Marianne’s voice. For Dawn, and for herself. If Bog hadn’t crashed the elf dance, would Roland have succeeded in love-dusting her?

“Roland…asked me to,” the small elf said eventually, eyes lowered. “He said…it was the only way to get what we both wanted.”

Marianne remembered looking down at a cowering Sunny as the Bog King flew away with her sister. She’d understood what he’d done in an instant; had seen it in his face. Yet at that moment, Marianne’s fear for Dawn had choked out all other concerns. Only now did the full weight of his actions hit her.

And Dawn, it seemed, from her trembling shoulders. How could Sunny do that to her?

“And what was that?” Marianne’s voice was a harsh whisper. A hard lump balled in her throat, but the faery refused to look away.

The elf’s mouth moved wordlessly; he still refused to look at any of them.

“Sunny?” Dawn whispered.

The Faery King made as if to speak, but Marianne cut him off with a wave of her hand. This was for her and Dawn to deal with. Steeling her shoulders, the she turned back to the elf.

“Sunny,” she said, jaw clenched. “Did you know that Roland planned on using the potion on me?”

He said nothing, but cast a guilty look her way. On the inside, Marianne seethed. The clacking of chitin plates beside her meant that she was not alone in her sentiment. Thank the sun Bog was there to balance her rage.

“And you were going to use it on Dawn?” Marianne hated to ask, hated what it would do to Dawn. But she was the Heir Apparent, and they needed answers.

“There didn’t seem to be any other way!” Sunny’s voice broke. “He made it sound so reasonable!”

“But why?” Dawn’s voice was heart wrenching.

“You were never going to notice me! Always going on about Darren, or Hadrian without even…” One of Sunny’s hands loosely grasped the front of his chest as the elf shook his head. “I…I just wanted to stop hurting.”

“So what, you’d rather a potion forced me to love you?” Dawn’s voice was raw and her eyes, red and weeping. “I thought you were my friend!”

Sunny flinched at her words.

“I’m not proud of it, ok?”

Marianne scoffed.

“How could you think that was good idea? A love potion,” she spat. Violet wings flared, as if to shield Dawn. Marianne stalked toward Sunny, who looked on her with dread. “This is Roland we’re talking about!”

He scowled at that, and didn’t back down when she towered over him.

“Well, now I know he’s not a good guy!” Sunny exclaimed, and behind him the lizard slapped at the ground with its splayed feet.

She barely held back a scream, almost wishing the reptile would attack so that she had something to hit.

“Me refusing to marry him wasn’t enough of an indication?” Marianne’s voice hitched higher.

“Well, maybe if you’d told us why-“

“Just shut up! All of you!”

Both heads snapped around at Dawn’s cry, only to see a flash of peach from her wings as the distressed faery fled into the forest.

A small cry of distress escaped from Marianne’s throat, only to be interrupted.

“Dawn!” The Faery King made to leap after his youngest daughter. Managing to clear a few inches of air, a hand seized his ankle and dragged him back to earth.

“No, I’ll go,” Marianne asserted, patting her father’s shoulder. Already he was short of breath, she noted fondly. Looking over at Bog, Marianne tilted her head. “Hold the fort for me?”

“Aye.”

His curled posture straightened and Bog leered at the hesitant thorn-guard. Her chest tightened at the sight of him before the faery turned back to her father.

“My little girl,” Dagda wheezed. “Marianne-“

“I’ll find her. Don’t worry,” reassured Marianne, grasping the Faery King’s pauldrons and looking him in the eyes. Her father relented and nodded. What a strange role reversal, Marianne thought as she tried to smile. “Try not to kill Sunny, we still need him.”

Bending her knees, the Faery Heir prepared for flight before a voice stopped her.

“Marianne!”

She didn’t turn, but Marianne’s lips thinned and she paused at Sunny’s distraught tone.

“I…I’m sorry, ok?” She heard his breath shudder. “Just…tell her that, will you?”

Her knuckles popped. The Faery Heir made no reply as she sprung into the air and chased after her sister.

\--

For a moment, Marianne felt nothing but relief as she darted through the air. If she focused on the sensation of flight, she could almost quiet the buzzing in her head. Surely Bog and her father were capable of maintaining some kind of civility without her there to supervise? Hopefully Sunny’s lizard wouldn’t go on a rampage. And Dawn-

She had to find Dawn.

Not that her baby sister had gone far. The uneven whimpers that floated through the air soon led her to the small alcove where Dawn had hidden.

Tucked beneath a leafy fern, she had curled herself into a tight ball. Face hidden in her knees, Dawn looked as fearful as a springling during a thunderstorm. Every so often, the thin line of her shoulders shook with another sob.

For a moment Marianne’s throat was stuck; it was hard to swallow, seeing Dawn so grief-stricken.

“Hey sis,” Marianne said, fluttering gently to the faery’s side.

“Hey.” The watery answer came through the cradle of Dawn’s arms.

Marianne hummed as she sat, edging close enough that their arms touched.

“Sorry if I got carried away back there,” she said, as if speaking on the weather.

“No, it’s fine,” Dawn sniffed, raising a hand to rub her nose. “You’ve just as much reason to be angry as me.”

Marianne bumped her sister’s shoulder.

“Yeah, but not as much as you.”

Wiping her eyes, Dawn shrugged and gazed off into the distance. Marianne doubted she was seeing a thing beyond her own turmoil. Face flush and shiny with tears, hair awry and with mess coming out her nose; Dawn, Marianne realised, was not a graceful crier.

“How has everything changed so fast?” The young faery whispered, even as more tears dripped down her face. “Just a little while ago I was so happy!”

Marianne hissed through her teeth; had it really been only yesterday that goblins had invaded the Spring Dance? Or that last night she’d dived through a window to challenge the Bog King? How long had it been since Dawn had taken her hands and urged her to tell Bog her true feelings? Everything seemed trapped in a whirlwind.

A wave of weariness washed over Marianne and made her ears droop. If only things would slow down, maybe everyone could find a happy ending.

Running a hand through her hair, Marianne nudged her sister’s shoulder.

“Tell me about it,” she said, tilting her chin so as to look at her sister better. “What’s going through your head right now?”

Dawn blinked slowly, fingers worrying at the hem of her dress.

“It’s just…how am I meant to feel about this?” Pearly teeth bare, Dawn slammed her hands against the ground and turned to her with dewy eyes. Marianne bit her tongue and tried not to interrupt. “Urgh! I can’t believe that jerk!”

Dawn’s fierceness faded soon enough. Her lips quivered as she turned back into herself.

For a moment, neither faery spoke. The pale morning light filtered through the underbrush to play patterns on their legs. Marianne wiggled her feet and listened to the sharp breaths of her sister.

“When I was…dusted…” began Dawn, pale brows coming together to form a hurt frown. “Everything glowed when Boggy was near. And then, Sunny felt so real, and I knew. That’s why the potion faded, right?”

Marianne hummed and nodded. Cogs were turning in her sister’s head; Dawn’s lips were drawn into a small bud. It was not dissimilar to the pout that appeared whenever a dress and a dance were involved, but at least the tears had stopped falling.

“But why would he want me love-dusted? It’s not the same at all!”

“No,” Marianne agreed, winding an arm through her sister’s. “It’s not.”

Dawn sank into her embrace, like they had when they’d been small and the Kingdom had gone into mourning. Fluffy hair tickled Marianne’s chin from where her sister’s head rested on her shoulder. It had been a long time since Marianne had sought to comfort Dawn like this.

Too long, perhaps.

“Even so,” mumbled Dawn with the quietest of hiccups. “How could Sunny be happy forcing those feelings on to me?”

Her hold on her sister tightened.

“He wouldn’t have been, I think,” Marianne cut through her sister’s grunt of disbelief. “Not once he saw what you’d been turned into. Heck, even I found it frightening.”

“You’re not funny,” grumbled Dawn, deliberately wiping her runny nose into her sister’s arm. Marianne was just grateful to have annoyed the hurt out of her voice.

“Probably not,” she agreed, and patted the top of Dawn’s head.

She remembered how awkwardly her sister had tried to calm her on that day, a year ago. Marianne had been so uncertain, despite her naïve joy. It was worth remembering that Roland had a talent for spinning the truth into what he wanted.

“Maybe Sunny just lost his way a little,” Marianne said after a pause. She felt Dawn’s face scrunch up against her skin. “Roland can be very persuasive when he wants to be, is all I’m saying.”

A small grumble sounded from Dawn, and the young faery buried her face in Marianne’s lap. Smiling sadly, she rubbed her sister’s back, careful to avoid agitated wings.

“I just don’t know how I should feel,” came Dawn’s muffled voice. Hers ears twitched from where they poked out from under her hair. “I don’t want him hurt, but I…I…”

“It’s ok, Dawn,” Marianne soothed, feeling much older than she should. “You don’t have to figure this out right away. And I’ll be here for you, every step of the way.”

They sat in silence for a long moment after that. The morning sun still peeked through the under-bush with unreasonable cheerfulness. Its warmth made her eyes heavy, or perhaps that was the lack of sleep.

Dawn settled, tucking her hands under her head with a lengthy sigh.

“Well,” Marianne said, after a while. “We could always pretend you died of a broken heart. That would punish him fairly well.”

Dawn snorted.

“It’d serve him right,” she slurred.

“Yeah.”

Marianne hummed a lullaby. For a moment, they could be still. Neither moved for a while. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Sorry it's taken a while to update, uni started up again and I had a lot of trouble trying to write Dawn and Marianne. So many characters!
> 
> As I've mentioned before, the thing that irked me in the film was how it dealt with Sunny dusting Dawn. I like them both, it's just a pity the complexity of the situation was glossed over. Dawn doesn't seem the sort to sink into vehement hate like her sister, but would still feel wounded by Sunny's actions.
> 
> Oh well, hope you liked it!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	6. That looks on tempests and is never shaken

“Is she dead?”

“She’s still breathing, isn’t she?”

From her dozy haze, Marianne felt something sharp poked at her ribs.

“Well, then how do we wake her?”

It jabbed at her again, and the faery spluttered into rude waking as she seized the offending stick.

“Ah!” A bug-eyed gobbling shrank away in comical horror, whilst his companion crossed arms and shook it's head.

“You’re hopeless,” the bulky goblin rolled it's eyes before holding out a hand. “Stuff and Thang, at your service, Princess. B.K. sent us to check up on you.”

Taking the proffered hand, she was jolted by the surprisingly strong grip. Still a little dumbstruck, Marianne stared at the two eclectic goblins before her. She’s never imagined them to be so varied; they looked nothing like Bog and his mother. 

“Oh. Pleased to meet you.” Recognition tickled at her mind and Marianne squinted at the pair. “I’ve seen you before. Are you two Bog’s right hand goblins?”

“She-goblin,” Stuff answered smugly, before shooting a dirty look at her companion. “Apparently it needs mentioning.”

Thang giggled nervously and shrugged with casual regret. Blinking, she found herself nodding in solemn agreement at Stuff’s ire.

It seemed quiet under the fern. Raising a hand to shade her face, Marianne studied what she could glimpse of the climbing sun high beyond the canopy of trees. The air was still, for spring.

“How long has it been?” Looking at her surroundings, worry spiked her pulse as she realised why the quiet disturbed her. “Where’s Dawn?”

The two goblins before her shrugged.

“You mean the blond one?”

“Who sings too much?” Thang interrupted, before being nudged aside by Stuff.

“She wasn’t here when we arrived.”

Marianne scowled; trust her sister to wander off into the Dark Forest without a care in the world and no notion of where she was. Even back home Dawn had a knack for stumbling into trouble.

“She better not be lost,” muttered the faery, scanning the surrounding foliage for any sign of Dawn’s passing.

“Who’s lost?”

“Ah!” Thang threw up his arms and cowered as a blur of blond hair and peach wings dropped beside them. 

The tight ball of worry in her chest faded in relief; Dawn was safe, and though her expression was wan, the desolate tears were gone. _Still,_ Marianne thought as she scanned her sister for bumps and bruises, that didn’t mean Dawn could go haring off all alone. Who knew what lurked in the Dark-

Scowling, Marianne kicked herself mentally. Things were different now. The forest was different, possibly dangerous, but not necessarily bad.

Before she could open her mouth to scold, Dawn fluttered up and plopped something blue and leafy over her head. Marianne spluttered and waved her arms as her sister laughed at her over-reaction.

“Calm down, silly,” smiled Dawn, slim hands darting forth to right Marianne’s hair. “It’s a flower crown.”

Stuff and Thang hid their giggles badly, leaving Marianne to glare at them as Dawn slapped away her hands.

“You went off making a flower crown?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, at least one of us is a triumph of love today,” Dawn replied, defiantly cheerful as she adjusted a flower. “We might as well acknowledge it.” 

“I…ah…um,” Marianne could do little more than mumble; it was hard to be churlish when Dawn smiled so. A stray blossom dropped in front of her vision, and she finally had a glimpse of what her sister had used to make her crown.

Her breath caught in her throat as she brushed the midnight blue flower with hesitant finger-tips.

“Oh please,” her sister scolded, plucking the flower from her hands to wind it back into place. “There was a song and everything.”

Heat prickled at Marianne’s cheeks; a part of her wanted to rip the crown off on principle. But Dawn had made it, and Bog had liked Dawn’s boutonniere. 

“Is he going to be ok with this?” came Thang’s furtive whisper.

“Well, he’s ok with her, isn’t her?” Stuff replied.

“Of course Boggy will be,” Dawn declared, pinching her cheeking to seal the deal. “There. You look lovely.”

Wringing her hands, Marianne bared her teeth in her best impression of a grin. That her heart skipped a beat and fluttered about her chest was entirely not a result of her companion’s words.

 _Oh stars and stems,_ Marianne gulped; she’d sung a heart-song. A bloody heart-song. To the Almighty Bog King, too. Imagine what her hand-maidens would say! So much for swearing off love. A strained and strangled giggle erupted from her throat, and her wings jittered.

“Oh, you are pleased!” Dawn clapped her hands together and beamed.

Marianne blushed, and did not disagree.

\--

Much to Marianne’s surprise, no scene of chaos greeted their return to the site formally known as the Bog King’s fortress. 

There was a lot of singing, but that came from the elves’ work-song as they helped sift through the ruins of the goblin stronghold. The goblins themselves worked alongside them, occasionally pausing in confused bafflement at the musical mayhem. 

A small, wiry-haired she-goblin enthusiastically conducted the music, with her own particular embellishments. It was a confusing and rhythmic mess, but the elves seemed to enjoy it. From the tree root they’d clambered up to, Stuff and Thang hung off one another and groaned emphatically. How Griselda knew a thing about elf-song was beyond Marianne’s comprehension, but she certainly did not lack for enthusiasm. Unfortunately.

More surprising was the sight of her father and Bog in somewhat civil conference. Sunny sat against a tree root, knees curled up to his chin as two of the Thorn-guard stood rigid around him. Some way away, the lizard fretted as a larger elf attempted to calm her.

A small whimper came from her back, and Marianne pursed her dark lips at the sight of Dawn’s wounded eyes. Even now, the urge to dive and throttle Sunny simmered under her skin. Duplicitous little worm, but even Dawn might object if she attempted murder.

Instead, she fluttered forward to cup Dawn’s cheeks and dart a kiss on her sister’s forehead.

“Do you want to stay here?” Marianne asked. The two goblins below them nodded enthusiastically. “I’m sure Stuff and Thang wouldn’t mind waiting with you.”

Dawn hiccupped, and sniffed daintily before shaking her head. Pride squeezed her chest; her little sister was so much braver than the empty-headed flirt she pretended to be. Whirling around, Marianne flared her wings before gliding down to the clearing, Dawn at her heels.

Bog spotted their return first, eyes so wide and blue. Wings buzzing, she saw his stance shift, though he refrained from leaping in the air to greet her. Marianne grinned at his eagerness nonetheless; already she fought the urge to open her arms and tackle him with a hug. The look on Dagda's face would almost be worth it. How she'd become so at ease with affection so suddenly was somewhat alarming.

The Faery King was far more obvious in his relief. Face ruddy, Dadga spared no time in hopping over to where Dawn gracefully touched down. Marianne hummed as her father buried his youngest daughter in hug, distracted enough to stumble into her own landing.

A long hand caught her elbow, and Marianne knew she was blushing when she gazed up at her lanky lover. Bog had a way of taking her breath away with nary a word; she wasn’t used to being regarded with awe.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, bringing a hand up to run through her unruly hair only to get tangled in Dawn’s flower crown. 

“I-I like it,” Bog stammered, clearing his throat as it pitched wildly. Spindly fingers helped free her own. Marianne’s grin widened. “It’s, er, very…”

“Lovely?” She finished for him. Their fingers were still wound together, and Marianne coughed as cast her gaze across the clearing so as to hide her pleasure at his regard. “I’m impressed. Everyone seems to be getting along and nothing’s on fire. Tell me, what is your secret?”

“I've a way with words.”

By the sun, he could be a smug git when he wanted. The waggling of leafy brows should be outlawed.

“Uh-huh. How many mushrooms did you have to kick?” Marianne teased. Thang had been very talkative on the way back as to the style of Bog’s rule. Stuff less so, preferring to leave her companion to dig his own hole.

Bog puffed out his cheeks in outrage. Adorable.

“None,” he pouted and Marianne snickered. Bog waved off her amusement gesturing to the faeries and elf under guard. “We’ve been debating what to do with your 'friends' there.”

The mirth quickly left her mood. Scrunching her nose, Marianne folded her arms and glared their way. She swore they flinched.

“And?”

“Your father wants to drag them all back in chains,” Bog said mildly, drawing back to thump his staff against the dirt. The amber stone glinted.

The familiar, long-suffering sigh of her father signalled his approach, Dawn on his arm. Dagda smiled wanly at Marianne. 

“So that a Rose Court can be summoned and they can sit trial,” he explained, certainly not for the first time. “How will you even hold them?”

“The usual way,” Bog snapped irritably. “We goblins do understand the concept of imprisonment.”

“No-one’s saying otherwise,” huffed Dadga.

They sounded, if anything, like bickering springlings, rolling through the same argument a thousand times for stubbornness' sake. 

“It doesn’t matter who imprisons them until we find Roland,” Marianne pointed out, trying very hard not to spit out the flea-son’s name. But, both Bog and her father grumbled in agreement and loosened their terse stances. Dawn patted their father’s arm.

“Aye, but I’ll have my due,” Bog turned to her, eyes sharp. “The elf and a faery will remain. Until the…knight is found, that’s how it’ll stay.”

“In what conditions?” She asked evenly, more to assure her sister and father. She hoped Bog saw that. “What will happen to Sunny and the other?”

If he was bothered by her question, he didn’t show it. The Bog King stretched to his full height, head angled in regal profile as he eyed the faeries coolly. Gold light glinted off the amber embedded in his staff. Marianne’s heart flip-flopped in her chest.

“We’ll be swarming until I find a new hive,” Bog said. “They’ll be under guard. Then they’ll help build it.”

“And once Roland is found?”

He met her question with an undiscernible expression, and Marianne’s mouth tightened in dismay. This was uneasy ground for both of them. Lines were becoming blurred, between the performance of leadership and the concerns of their newly budding hearts. 

“Then they will be subject to Goblin Law and goblin justice,” answered Bog, fingers twitching where he held his staff. Marianne wanted to reach for him, assure him that she understood.

“They are Field-folk,” objected the Faery King. Marianne frowned, but held her tongue. Her father looked tired, for all his bluster. “And should be judged as such.”

Bog’s lips curled down, shoulder-plates flaring. The urge to scream was again crawling up her throat; this dispute would not be solved this day. Not here and now with their tired minds. They were talking in circles.

“Now, now, why the sour faces?” An impossibly scratchy scolding heralded Griselda’s arrival. Marianne unfolded her arms as the small she-goblin took her hand, and Bog’s, and beamed up at her audience. “This is a happy day! My sweet boy in love, we should be celebrating!”

“Ma!” growled Bog, frustration palatable in his tone. Dawn giggled into her hand as her father just looked flummoxed. How Griselda had crept up to them with no notice was a baffling mystery.

“I agree,” Dawn said quietly, wincing only a little when all looked her way. Her grip on Dagda tightened. “With everything, shouldn’t we just be happy that things didn’t turn out worse?”

Marianne huffed, letting the tense line of her shoulders relax. Tried not to think of that awful moment after the dust settled and no one had clambered out from the ruin. She met her father’s gaze, full of sorrow, pride and regret that mirrored her own. Dawn had surprised them all again, with her generosity and spirit. For all her tough talk, Marianne didn’t think she was half as brave as her sister.

Her amber eyes flickered to the goblins beside her. Bog was studiously avoiding everyone’s eyes, attempting to disengage his hand from his mother’s grip. Griselda was blissfully oblivious, or at least pretending to be; a wide, toothy grin stretched from cheek to cheek.

“I knew I liked you, honey-bee,” beamed Bog’s mother, throwing aside both their hands to trot over to Dawn and delicately pat her arm. “And not just for your pretty singing. There’s few things a party can’t fix.”

Bog stalked forward, causing her father’s wings to flicker and the Thorn-guard to twitch. Marianne chewed on her bottom lip, a habit hard to break. 

“We are not having a party!” Her lover groused at his mother. Griselda rolled her eyes dramatically, and Marianne smirked to see where Bog’s sense of drama came from.

“Oh, relax your thorax,” the she-goblin cackled, causing Dagda to wince at the pitch. “It’ll be fine.”

But Dawn’s eyes had lit up and her wings were fluttering as she hopped from foot to foot.

“Dad, could we host it?” she begged, wide-eyed and adorable with her cotton-fluff hair. “It’ll be perfect. We can have fun and get to know one another and-”

“Uh-“ The Faery King nobly responded.

“We just had a whole week of Spring celebrations!” Marianne exclaimed, horrified as her father’s head began to nod as he caved to his youngest child’s pleas. For her part, Dawn threw a cheeky look over her shoulder even as she fluttered her eyes at Marianne.

“Yes,” agreed her sister. “But the Elf Festival was so rudely interrupted, and-”

Dawn’s smile faltered, peach wings drooping solemnly, and there was little to wonder at why. Marianne almost wished she hadn’t objected, to keep that joy in Dawn’s heart.

“Maybe not tonight,” Marianne said softly. Should she step forward? Dawn still hung onto their father, but she was standing on her own two feet. She didn’t deserve pity, and, Marianne knew, wouldn’t want it. By the sky, if anyone didn't deserve half the heart ache she'd suffered, it was her sister.

But Dawn sidestepped Dagda and Griselda to stumble her way, and Marianne held out her ungentle hands for her sister’s smaller ones.

“Oh but we should be happy, sis!” smiled the blond faery, even as tears leaked from her deep blue eyes. “This should be a time for dancing and singing, for you and Bog and all of us to not be afraid again.”

When they were young and fearless, Dawn would drag her twirling around the dancefloor, making up dances that worked for her clumsy feet and flailing limbs and laughing off those snickered behind their hands.

No one was laughing now, but it felt the same. For all that Marianne was the elder, Dawn had always tried to celebrate her. 

“And we are!” Marianne reassured. Would that she could share the joy that ran along her bones! Already, her eyes sought out crystal sharp gaze of Bog for his support and understanding. She found it, would that she could abandon herself to the sensation. “But our people need to know we’re safe, and Bog needs to find a new fortress. And Roland is still out there.”

Dawn’s chin dipped.

“So then," she began with the tiniest of hiccups. "What happens now, Marianne?”

The Faery Heir sighed, running a hand through her sister’s fluffy hair.

“You and Dad and the Thorn-guard should go home,” she said, injecting enough firmness to cut off her father’s objections before they began. “I’ll stay. Might as well start on making amends.”

Griselda cackled at that, behind them, whilst her father looked dour. Marianne ignored them, she had to wait for her soldiers to return, with or without her traitorous former fiancée. It would be better for both kingdoms if someone remained to manage those already helping with the clean-up. A sign of good will to the goblins, evidence of royal care for the Field-folk.

“And Sunny?” The quaver in Dawn’s voice almost broke her.

“He-“ Damn her words for stumbling, but Marianne had to wrestle her voice into neutrality. She didn’t even know how to approach the problem of Sunny. “He’ll stay here for the time being.”

“You,” Dawn pulled away from her, ears twitching as she inhaled deeply before striding up the Bog. Dagda made to pull back his youngest, but Marianne stilled him with a sharp cut of her hand as Griselda tugged his sleeve to mutter into his ear.

“Boggy!”

“Bog King!” He’d curled over like tree-nut, teeth snapping in reflex as Dawn thrust a dangerous finger his way. Marianne had to repress a grin from the absurdity of it all

“If you harm so much as a hair on Sunny’s head, I will personally ensure you regret it for every remaining moment of your life,” Dawn declared fiercely, wings flared like herald of her namesake. “Songs. Boutonnieres. Dancing. The whole lot, understand?” 

The Bog King sneered, then grumbled until at last he offered a single curt nod.

“Right,” said Dawn, expression set in determination as she turned back to Marianne. “I’m going over to tell Sunny what a jerk he’s been, you and Dad can argue, and then we’re going home.”

With that, the blond princess spun on her heel to stalk over to where Sunny sat dejectedly under guard. Marianne watched as fear, hope, awe and regret all flittered across the elf's freckled face at Dawn’s noisy approach. 

“You two girls,” groaned Dagda, shuffling to her side. “Will be death of me.”

Griselda had hopped over to Bog and was plaguing him unhelpful dinner-date suggestions. Dawn was still berating Sunny, as the lizard thumped its tail behind them .

“Not your appetite?” Marianne said, one brow raised pointedly.

“Don’t be like that,” he chided, one hand absently rubbing his rotund belly. “You’re determined to see this through?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are,” The Faery King shifted his bulk, green eyes tracking her face like it was porcelain. “How long until you return?”

Marianne stood straighter, chin up and alert. It was strange, to be so level with her father; for so long she’d been fighting everything he represented. Yet here and now, after this long fateful night and day, Dagda looked on her as an equal, with the future of her kingdom cradled in her calloused palms.

“By nightfall,” she answered. “That gives us time to can sort out the logistics of this peace. Or begin to, at least.”

Dagda grunted, wings flaring lightly in a simply gesture of compromise.

“I won’t pretend to be pleased,” said her father slowly. “But I am proud, Marianne.”

Marianne smiled. A good, honest smile without her toothy sarcasm or bitterness. Dagda saw it, she could tell by the way his eyes crinkled and his ears drooped. Change was not easy, and her father had not always met it well. But now, at least he was trying.

When she offered her open arms, Dagda’s eyes glimmered wetly as swept her up in a bone-crushing embrace.

“I know,” she whispered to him. She was trying, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was so hard! Is it boring? Is there too much dialogue? Am I making too much of the group dynamic? Am I repeating myself?
> 
> Anyway, I managed to churn this out, and I'm surprisingly pleased. Especially with Dawn, as she's such a lovely character but with her own particular brand of fire. Also Griselda saves the day. I hope you guys liked it too, and thank you for waiting while I took so long!
> 
> Glossary:  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	7. It is the star to every wandering bark

On wide wings, Marianne glided around the hollow wreckage of the Bog King’s lair. Dust still hung in the air as goblins scurried through the rotten rubble, searching for anything left of value. 

After her father, her sister and their entourage had left, Bog and Marianne had scant few moments together before it became clear that their respective charges required supervision. Chaos, it seemed, was quick to break out in the Dark Forest with no drama to entertain or a distracted king.

 _Apparently_ , Marianne thought with more than a little pride, thinking of eager hands and heated glances, _she was very distracting_.

None of those, goblin or faery, who’d been sent to search for Roland had yet returned, and so effort had been turned to salvage. For her part, Marianne had spent most her time trying to calm and manage the love-dusted folk into some kind of coherence. She was met with mild success.

On the peak of the wood pile, Bog poked through the mess with his staff, occasionally spotting something of interest to then swoop in on. She kept her eye on him; indeed, it seemed hard to draw her attention away. The midday sun hit his wings, causing ripples of iridescent colour to shimmer with every turn the goblin King made.

Griselda trailed behind him, arms waving dramatically when she recovered one item or another. She wasn’t close enough to hear the she-goblin, but the put upon expression on Bog’s face was enough to make Marianne keep her distance.

That, and there was the reverent way Griselda tugged at her son’s arm to look upon some relic or another, the bowed head of Bog at each broken thing. For all Bog had tried to brush off her sympathy for the crumbled fortress, grief rang around those who looked.

So, Marianne dipped her wings and angled past the assembly line of elves passing squashed and scrambled food to the growing stockpile of recovered berries, nuts and fungi on the shelf of earth above the site. They’d already constructed a crude gondola lift to hoist their burdens up out of the crevice the tree stump had fallen into. Even those few soldiers who’d been left behind had been roped into the hard labour; their discarded armour lay in messy piles around the clearing.

 _“Some people say a man is made outta mud,”_ the baritone of a larger elf bore the back of the elven work-song. _“A poor man's made outta muscle and blood.”_

Marianne watched them, teeth bright and muscles bulging as the hardy Field-folk put their all into the work. Curiously, the singer rode atop the lizard who’d earlier been so protective of Sunny, pulling out larger pieces of bark for the smaller goblins to sift through.

 _“Muscle and blood and skin and bones,”_ hollered the elf, waving on those around him. Even the goblins had begun to pick up on the tune. _“A mind that's a-weak and a back that's strong.”_

Fluttering towards them, Marianne alighted by the lizard, ears twitching as the thrum of notes bit at her pulse. It was heart and soulful and full of toil, but unlike her wild ballad, this was not meant for her. Instinctively Marianne knew that, princess or not, this was a song she had no right to sing.

 _“You load sixteen tons, what do you get,”_ continued the chant. _“Another day older and deeper in debt.”_

Still, Marianne wiped her hands on her breeches, and threw her weight behind dragging out some stubborn branch. The large elf raised his brow at her help, but continued on.

 _“Night Blighty, don't you call me 'cause I can't go,”_ he intoned. _“I owe my soul to the kingdom and woe.”_

With one last mighty last effort, Marianne fell back with a yelp as the difficult branch popped out of the wedge that had held it. Immediately, a swarm of small green goblins scurried to the opening it had left behind.

Rump sore, Marianne winced as she sat up from the dirt. Eyes narrow, she looked up in surprise when a brown, meaty hand was extended her way. His face was open and pleasant as the elf hauled the Faery Heir off her arse. Behind them, the work-song continued heartily.

The lizard, however, snorted derisively before turning back to the assembly line.

“Thanks,” Marianne hooking a smile at the massive elf; he was even taller than she’d thought. A full head, almost, she had to crick her neck to look up at him. “Took me by surprise.”

“Yeah,” the word was long and drawn out like a rumble of thunder without the menace.

“How’re things looking down here?”

“Ok,” he replied, wiping sweat from his brow. “Thirsty work though.”

“Hmm,” Marianne mused, frowning at her lack of foresight. She should have made sure her people well fed and watered. No matter that they were here for a day. “I’ll have to talk to Bog about that. What provisions did the militia bring?”

“Not much,” the elf admitted. “Trail mix, some nettle-wine.”

“I bet Roland didn’t even consider a supply-line,” Marianne muttered, more so to herself then her companion. 

Really though, that scut had a talent for masking carelessness with confidence. What would have happened, stars forbid it, if his march on the Dark Forest had been drawn out into a long campaign? She shuddered at the thought of her people trapped in unfamiliar terrain, hounded by angry goblins.

The Faery Heir shook her head. That had not happened, and they were working with the goblins and not against them. She was in luh…lov…

Very partial to one of them, after all. 

_Loved him,_ she scolded herself, stop being squeamish about it.

Blowing a stray strand of hair from her face, Marianne looked up to find the elf quietly studying her. She’d always had trouble reigning in her thoughts and feeling from her expression. Blushing, she wondered how much had he seen in hers.

“Hey-ah…” Marianne faltered as she realised an embarrassing fact. “What was your name, by the by?”

Disgraceful, really. She ought to know her people better. Never mind that Marianne had preferred her solitude and hand-maids and her training; Dawn had always been the one who danced and greeted their people. 

“Pare, Princess,” answered the elf, as if her ignorance was no great deal. She bit her lip in embarrassment.

“Right. Pare,” repeated the faery, hands on her hips for some semblance of dignity. “Look, if you need anything, let me know and I’ll sort it, ok?”

Pare nodded slowly, carefully, tugging the string on his cap like some kind of reminder. Marianne promised herself to do better. It wasn’t only the border between the Field and the Dark Forest that needed breaking down.

“OK,” he replied, after a long pause. Just as she bent her knees to lift off, however, Pare reached a hesitant hand forward. “Princess?”

Pausing, Marianne nodded for him to continue.

“Yes?”

“Sunny,” said the elf, heaving bulky shoulders. It was neither a statement nor a question; she had a sneaking suspicion it was close to an accusation.

“Yes?” Dark lips pressed together in a wary line.

Pare simply looked at her meaningfully, and then gestured to the small outcrop where Sunny and Millet worked the gondola under guard.

A small sigh escaped her; Marianne had no real answer to offer him. The details of Goblin Law had yet to be explained in detail to her, and no real agreement had been made on the terms of their imprisonment. Only that nothing could happen until one chattering slug-son was found.

“I don’t rightly know,” she admitted, wings drooping despondently. “He’s to remain here with Millet until Roland is found.”

The elf hummed thoughtfully into his hand, arms folded.

“Will he be alright?” Pare asked.

“I don’t know.” Her heart was still strung with fury at Sunny’s thoughtlessness, pity at his insecurities and worry about how Dawn’s light would be dimmed by the entire mess.

Eventually, Marianne thought, her sister would forgive him. Whether her love would survive it was another story. And still, there was her father and the Bog King’s rage to counter. She didn’t want Sunny hurt, truthfully. Likely he would punish himself over the deception more than she or Bog ever could. 

“He helped get the potion back,” Pare reminded her, placid and pointed all at once. “Rescued those love-dusted from the dungeon.”

“I know.” Marianne frowned, trying to separate objectivity from her own feelings of personal betrayal.

“Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t,” she promised. How much good it would do Sunny was debatable. He’d tried to love-dust a princess. 

Marianne sucked on her teeth, shading her eyes with one hand as she studied the work surrounding them. Dragonflies, directed by their wranglers, swooped down and up over the rotted wood. Stuff and Thang were hauling out something that suspiciously looked like a brewing vat. 

A bright shimmer of indigo darted through the scene, causing the lizard to rear and elves to stumble. The high pitched trill that followed revealed the culprit. Snapping out her violet wings, Marianne leapt into the air to give chase. Pare huffed in her wake.

A goblin yelped as she almost flew into him. The Sugar Plum Faery dove into a pile of moss and bark, tearing through the litter in a frenzy before abandoning it.

“Hey you!” Darting through the broken site, Marianne swerved and dodged to keep up with the infernal inferno of sparkles. “Sugar Plum or whatever you call yourself!”

“Well,” giggled Plum, at a higher pitch than seemed possible. “If it isn’t little miss sword and sorcery!”

With a splash of colour, the rare faery spiralled off in another direction. Gritting her teeth, Marianne beat her wings harder after her.

“Wait up!”

They shot away from the majority of commotion, past the song and grumbling goblins and deeper into the riverbed the fortress had been perched on.

“Why?” Plum called back cheekily. “I’m a very busy woman, you know! Lots to do. No, not there either!”

The last part was a distracted mutter as Plum once again turned over through dust and dirt. Marianne had to duck to avoid the overlarge piece of tinder that was carelessly thrown her way.

How the small sprite had even lifted the thing, let alone thrown it, almost rendered Mariannne speechless. Just what was the Sugarplum Faery?

“I wanted to ask you something?” Marianne yelled instead, fluttering closer to the manic faery.

“Hmm? Sorry, no take backsies!” Clucked Plum, before attacking another bit of crumpled tree. “Maybe under here?”

“What? No!” huffed the Faery Heir as she attempted to approach. “I wanted to ask you about the others.”

That gave Plum a pause.

“Others?” Her wide, indigo eyes blinked in bafflement as she turned her sharp face to Marianne.

“The love dusted others,” she exclaimed, thrusting her hands to where a faint, love-sick tune occassionally wafted over the construction bustle. At least the crazy thing seemed to be listening to her. “Can’t you hear them? They’re driving me nuts!”

She hated their blind joy, the unthinking affection they offered one another. Marianne did not know any of the love-dusted folk, but she remembered a time when all her hopes and dreams were bound up in a false idea. An idol. Seeing it consume others made her nauseas. 

Plum merely brought a hand to her face and chuckled. The lights of her eyes were like the night sky.

“That’s love for you,” she said gleefully, throwing a lewd wink in for good measure.

“But it’s not,” Marianne snapped, scooting around to face Plum again. No wonder Bog had been so grouchy; the sprite was being deliberately facetious. “You said so yourself!”

“Did I?”

“Yes!”

The shimmering faery rolled her long hand in an unconcerned gesture and shrugged.

“Well, perhaps I did. What does that have to do with you?” Plum asked, hips bobbing as she returned to scavenging.

Marianne almost screamed.

“How do I get them to stop?” Previously, only Dawn had made her want to tear out her own hair in such frustration.

“Stop?”

“All the the…nonsense?” The faces Marianne pulled were, she considered, her finest expressions of disgust. Plum studied them avidly, chin following the direction of her gaze to commit the sight to memory. Her father would have winced. 

“Oh, my sweet little night flower!” Plum threw her arms in the air and zoomed into a double barrel-roll. Her squeal of delight dug deep enough into Marianne’s ears to make her cringe. “It’s love, it never stops!”

Folding her arms, a scowl crept onto the Faery Heir’s face as she followed Plums continuous twirls.

“Well, that’s a load of slug guts,” she declared with no small amount of venom. Marianne considered herself something of an authority on the unreliability of love. One night wouldn’t change that, no matter how whole and hearty she felt at the thought of Bog. 

But that wasn’t the issue. Consent was. Brow furrowed, Marianne flew closer. 

“It’s not right, for them to be forced into feeling like that.”

“Why?” Plum had not stopped spinning.

“Because it’s not real!” The spike of anger that roared from her chest made the sentence a snarl. Talking to Plum was like conversing with a squirrel in season.

“It is for them,” countered the mad faery, almost coyly. She’d finally stilled and was tending to her dark headdress. 

Eyes flat, Marianne gaped at her; the cheek and changeability! What on earth kind of logic did Plum run on, to pull it from seemingly nowhere?

“No-argh! You can’t change your mind like that,” Marianne hissed, wings quickening with her frustration to pitch her higher. She poked her palm to emphasise the point. “Real love is the antidote, so the dusted love can’t be real!”

Plum sent an aggravated glare to the heavens and swept up her hands.

“Real, not real. Such boring details.” In a flash, the indigo faery was twice as tiny, loudly in her space and wearing her appearance. “Was your adolescent love any less real than what you’re feeling now?”

A bolt of queasiness came from seeing herself prance about like a love-sick loon. More-so from how accurate an impression it once had been.

“Yes!”

The tiny Marianne stuck out her hip to one side and bopped her on the nose.

“Why?”

Air hissed through Marianne’s teeth as she shooed the menace away. The little tornado of sparkling chaos was goading her, poking at her scar tissue. Probably. Else she was too scatter-brained to think better. Shoulders straight and chin out, Marianne pushed her finger into her tiny doppelgänger’s belly. 

“Because it’s built on something more than lies and fancy,” she snapped.

Plum merely fluttered her eyes and smiled coyly as she pirouetted and swooned.

“But your younger self,” Plum sighed dreamily, floating too close to Marianne’s cheek. If she wasn’t careful she was going to get swatted. “She believed it was real?”

Marianne flinched, scabbed heart hurt in the hollowness of the memory.

“But it wasn’t,” reaffirmed the faery, dark lips twisted in an instinctive grimace.

“Oh,” commiserated the sprite, spinning out of her glamour all at once. A long, spindly finger ran down Marianne’s cheek, expression at once very sad and simple. “Doesn’t matter, not to those little darlings at least.”

Marianne huffed. Fists ready to fight, but with no opponent in sight, Marianne drooped. She’d fight an owl to protect her own, if necessary, but magic? Marianne had a sword and two strong wings and lean arms that could not even free her sister from a love potion.

Dawn had always been ditzy, but the whirlwind of overbearing amorousness had been a mask over her sister that seemed too fierce to fit right. 

They’d fluttered further down the ravine in their conflict, leafy ferns and foliage curling at the edges of their scene. Even the bright bite of the midday sun seemed far away. It seemed very quiet. 

Nothing had been real, Marianne remembered, and did she not owe it to her folk to free them from the potion’s delusions? But how?

“So,” she started in a voice that sounded like defeat, and it galled her. “They’re stuck in some sort of infatuation forever, unless real love comes along and slogs them in the face?”

If she sounded bitter, it was with good cause.

“Well, normally it doesn’t quite work like that,” Plum exclaimed, throwing up her hands as she poked at some fallen wet-wood. “Love is strange, dearie. It’s also very changeable.”

There was something there that pricked through Marianne’s melancholy, and, eyes sharp, she circled the Sugar Plum Faery with renewed fire.

“Normally?”

Plum, of course, cackled, following the line of Marianne’s flight as she rolled through the air.

“You think I let just any old bug use my potion?” Ducking away, the blue lit sprite floated easily like a leaf on a breeze.

“You let Sunny have it,” Marianne pointed out, more than a little peeved.

Pissed, if she were being honest. All she was getting was more questions about Plum’s warped sense of morality.

“And look how well that turned out!” The Sugar Plum Faery idly poked at a mossy root.

“That turned out the opposite of all right!” Eyes alight, Marianne slammed a palm down on the root, creating a thick, hollow sound that startled the sprite. “Only through sheer chance did it not turn into a disaster.”

Blowing out her cheeks, Plum lifted her nose at Marianne’s outburst. Never mind the rumble of rotting wood that now shifted down in a steady tide. Both faeries fluttered away from the falling wood, wary of being inadvertently caught in the decent.

“Sheer chance is a colossal coincidence, my dear,” Plum scolded as they watched the wood tip into the stream bed below. “You’d be surprised at how many important things hinge on ‘sheer chance’.”

Marianne bared her teeth, but said nothing. How could she even begin to counter now that the indigo faery called on fate and destiny and stars knew what else to justify her mad potion?

It was wrong, no matter what odd philosophies Plum spouted forth. Maybe the sprite saw the world differently, but for herself, Marianne could not imagine how the love potion could be used as anything but a weapon of cruelty. 

Her nails bit into her palms; the urge to punch something was dangerously strong. It must have been writ clear on her face, because Plum smiled softly, all of a sudden old an unfathomable as the night sky. Only to bop Marianne’s nose with a curled finger.

“Leave the love-sick to their bliss,” counselled the sprite…faery…thing, as Marianne shook her head. “It will get broken, one way or another.

Marianne looked up at the wistful tone, and blinked, and the Sugar Plum Faery was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man did I have trouble with this chapter. I couldn't quite think of what I wanted to tell, but I enjoyed focusing on some other characters that I hadn't featured yet.
> 
> Plum is...a tricky one. Obviously she's more then a feather short of a hat, but what she is seem to defy all logic. I would n't say that she can see the future, per say, but maybe has knack for reading possibilities? I don't know, I tried to keep her entertaining and ambiguous enough to not explain away her odd attitudes to love and the potion. 
> 
> The work-song of Pare and the elves is Sixteen Tons first done by Merle Travis. While the song is about the plight of coal miners, I thought it fitted well in the weird faery/elf hierarchy. I did have to tweak the lyric a little.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! I hope you enjoy this chapter, at least.
> 
> Glossary  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Night Blighty: Elf folk belief, a guardian of souls.  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	8. Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken

“Marianne?”

Perched on a gnarled bump of bark and thoughts buried like nectar in petals, Marianne did not look up right away at the gruff voice calling her name.

“Marianne!”

“Here,” called the Faery Heir, struck by the thread of emotion in Bog’s call. She not meant to make him worry. Looking up at his lanky frame, Marianne smiled at the visible huff Bog exuded when he spotted her.

Wings buzzing, he dropped down next to her and set his staff between his knees. Not quite close enough to touch, but it was a spider’s thread distance between them. Still, Bog loomed over her, and Marianne held back from tracing the scars over his cheek. Stars, all she seemed to want was to touch him.

Still, her ears twitched at the pensive air about him.

“Is something wrong?”

“Oh? No!” Bog practically jumped at her question, hands waving in placation. “I just…uh…noticed you were gone.”

Well, if that didn’t make her blush like a berry. Marianne supressed her delighted grin and bumped his plated shoulder with a loose fist.

“Aw,” she drawled, eyes twinkling. “You missed me.”

Spluttering in the most amusing way, Bog put up his indignant nose and turned away. Least, until Marianne rose to her knees to catch his collar and draw his bony cheek low enough for her to kiss.

He lingered there, and Marianne rather suspected he was pleased.

“What were you doing back here?” Bog asked, folding his impossibly lanky body back down so as to perch by her side.

“Oh.” Marianne gestured vaguely with spindly fingers. “I saw the Sugar Plum Faery.”

A dark look dropped over his features, heavy brow pulled far over his sky-eyes. 

“She dinnae cause you any trouble?” One of his hands hovered at her back as the other thumbed his staff, and Marianne let herself feel pleased at his concern. It did not rankle the way her father’s stuffy protectiveness did. 

“No!” She hastened to assure him. “I…ah…wanted to ask her something.”

Bog twitched at that, almost visceral, and she felt him begin to edge away. She tilted her head at that, at the guarded veil that seemed to fall over his expression.

It was almost impossible, how easy she found it to read the Goblin King after so little time. Still, that did not mean she understood what spawned his sudden hesitance.

“Oh.” The noise he made sounded almost hollow.

Expression scrunching into a frown, Marianne shuffled closer.

“She’s madder than a hare in March,” sighed the Faery Heir, leaning in ever so slightly to brush her hand against where his lay on the whorl they were perched on.

Bog blinked at the contact, face heated as the back of one clawed finger ran over her flushed knuckles. It made her own cheeks warm considerably.

“Hm,” he agreed distractedly. “Nothing but trouble.”

Somewhere in the distance, the rumble of the work-song stumbled as a painful wail of love-dusted fools declared their sickeningly sweet affections in unison. Both faery and goblin winced.

“I’ve had enough of that song to last a lifetime,” Marianne grumbled as the chorus sang that they could not help it.

A small, woody laugh escaped from Bog, and she studied as the scars along his jaw stretched with his half smile. It was such a strange face; so different to the smooth features of faeries. The flecks of his foliage crept at his cheeks and brow, and Bog’s eyes were so vivid and bright.

Marianne shook her head as some poor creature butchered a high note. Just as well, she’d been dangerously close to sighing over him like some saccharine ninny. And how embarrassing was that? 

“I wanted to know if there was a way to help the love-dusted folk,” babbled Marianne, mostly to hide her own distraction. “Mainly so they would stop making that racket.”

She was taken aback to see Bog’s expression lighten like a sunbeam, and his large hand abandoned hesitation and clasped hers tightly. 

“Oh!” The edges of his jagged teeth showed with the hitching of his smile. It was such a change, Marianne found herself helpless but to return it.

“What did you think I wanted to ask her?” She tilted her head and tried not to let her countenance turn silly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bog asserted, unfurling his long legs to let his buzzing wings work. Their joined hands stretched between them as he stepped off their perch and hovered just above her.

The pull on her hand was gentle, palm raspy under her own.

“Doesn’t it?” Marianne quirked an eyebrow, dusting her knees as she stood. “You looked positively gloomy!”

Bog shrugged, plated shoulders clicking slightly with the motion, and Marianne let him tug her into the air. Really, she was hard-pressed to think of anything that she would deny him. Her hand-maidens would have teased her mercilessly for the thought.

They flew in silence up to the cracked and crumbling slope of the stump. From their position, the sprawling mass of goblin, elf and faery workers skittled from one place to the next. A rather large congregation seemed to have set up a make-shift kitchen, complete with stuffed beetles, skewered grubs and other goblin fare in addition to the nuts and berries more suited to the Field-folk.

“It’s so strange,” she said quietly, studying the view. A few of the larger goblins looked to be wrestling, enthusiastic elves commenting and giving pointers. She spotted a faery soldier pass his sword to a beak-faced goblin with a polished bow. “Just last night you kidnapped my sister.”

The grip on her hand tightened.

“And your father sent an army in to get her,” Bog answered gruffly; defiant and supplicating both at once.

“My father,” Marianne began, rolling her eyes high, “is a well-meaning, near-sighted ball of worry. But he does love his daughters very fiercely.”

“I cannae fault him that.”

Marianne sniffed at that, and pretended she wasn’t blushing at the soft care that shone in his gaze.

Their tender moment was broken by a rancorous cheer, and both dipped in the air in surprise. Below them, a giant gourd had been broken open by a jubilant Thang, supposedly egged on by Stuff. Workers quickly clamoured close waving rough-hewn cups and goblets. 

Bog’s groan was long and emphatic, and he led them down to the broken, rotted remains of his domain.

“Break open the ale, I said,” he growled through gritted teeth. “Not the poitin!”

“Is that bad?”

“It’s _potent_ , which is worse,” griped Bog. Another cheer rose, and another, decidedly different song arose from the mixed crowd. His thumb pressed into the back of her hand as they began to walk toward the festivities.

“Because I am going, I am going.” There was absolutely no grace to the jumble of voices belting out the joyous avowals. “Any which way the wind may be blowing!” 

“That,” Marianne stated wryly, “is a party gathering momentum if ever I’ve seen one.”

A burnish of bright copper caught her eye as Griselda clambered atop a readymade table, mouth wide and lungs belting loud enough to be a bird. 

“I am going, I am going.” Even some of the faery soldiers were joining in the feasting. Which was not terribly surprising; for all their claims of elegance and sophistication, very few Field-folk could resist a song and dance. “Where streams of liquor are flowing!”

 _Dawn would have loved this_ , Marianne thought with a pang. Her sister would have been right in the middle singing along as well as could please. She’d probably have tried to swipe a drink of that goblin-brew too, which made Marianne’s mouth twitch. 

Unwittingly, she turned her gaze up to the ridge where Sunny and Millet remained imprisoned. Behind them, most of the love-dusted folk still twittered amongst themselves, but a curious few had crept to the edge to watch the celebration. Maybe Plum’s ‘one way or another’ break on the love-potion would to come into effect for some.

A distinctive grinding emanated from Bog’s jaw.

“They asked for a meal break.” Clearly the resulting celebration was not what he’d had in mind.

Still, it was better than a war. Marianne lifted up Bog’s free hand and patted it kindly. 

“My people were hankering for refreshments too.” Her lips twisted at his sullen answering look, plates practically drooping. Perhaps he’d wanted to put on a more dignified show for them? Marianne’s face fell as she thought on why her people were in the Dark Forest at all. “You know Roland hadn’t even organised a supply-line?”

Amazed askance replaced Bog’s melancholy in an instance. Marianne shrugged a bare shoulder and chewed on an indigo lip.

“I expect he thought to end things in one fell swoop,” she supposed, looking down at his clawed hand in her fingers and then to the matted ruins of his home. The smell of damp mixed with dust and wet wood was stronger on the stump than in the air.

“More fool him,” sneered Bog, warm gold light glinting off the amber in his staff. “The wee bellend would ah found the Dark Forest more than he could handle.”

But his grip on he remained comfortingly firm. She refused to waste any more time on the nightmare Roland had tried to induce.

Another large gourd was lifted by dragonflies into the centre of the crowd and opened to much applause. Marianne noted that a love-dusted brownie, faery and mushroom had made their way down the wooden elevator, edging their way to proceedings.

“Huh,” Marianne hummed, before shaking out her wings. “Shall we make an appearance, Almighty Bog King? Maybe induce some order?”

With a sly side glance, Bog pressed her hand to his heart and bowed gallantly over it, staff flung up to exaggerated the gesture.

“If that is your wish, Crown Princess Marianne.” The edge of his smile was sharp and oh so enticing. She wanted to kiss it off.

“Ugh,” she exclaimed instead, retrieving her hand to brush away her fringe. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Hah.”

“Hilarious.”

Flaring her wings, Marianne sprung into the air, with Bog on her heels; both grinning despite themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! I had an utter blank on this chapter, and suddenly churned it out in one hit. I've also made a plan for myself for the arc of this fic.
> 
> Lyrics of the drinking song are from 'Streams of Whiskey' by the Pogues.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy this and thank you for your patience!
> 
> Glossary   
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Night Blighty: Elf folk belief, a guardian of souls.  
> Poitin: Potent goblin drink.  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	9. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Bog, much to her surprise, made a beeline to where his mother was directing the escalating festivities. For her part, Griselda’s beady eyes brightened at the sight of them and her grin stretched toothily.

“Look who it is!” Pulling a pair of starkly carved goblets from who knew where, the she-goblin spun the giant gourd with an impeccably timed kick and filled the cups up to brimming. “Drink up, there’s plenty to go around!”

Griselda waggled the proffered goblets, paying no heed to the rich liquor spilling over her hands. She jiggled her brows at Marianne in delight.

“Mother!” Bog growled, swiping both drinks away before Marianne had a chance to reach for hers. “Not the poitin! These slugs have work to be about.”

Marianne pouted, but was amused enough to see Stuff wordlessly take the goblets from her monarch’s grip without him seemingly noticing. The stout she-goblin passed the drinks on to eager elves, before spinning the gourd around again to help herself.

“Oh cease your jibber jabber,” Griselda waved off her looming tree of a son. “The Snouters got back not a mark ago. I’m just setting up for the swarm.”

Bog stiffened at that, wings flicking and chitin clacking. Setting a hand on her hip, Marianne waited a moment before eying the goblins bustling about her. Hand darting out, she snatched up a drink that had so been denied her.

“You ought to have called me,” Bog seethed, cracking his jaw as he waved at the broken and bent stump about them. “We haven’t even found the tablets of tales yet, never mind our winter stores-“

Hopping off the table she’d claimed, Griselda bounced up to her son and rapped her knuckles against his plated belly.

“They’ll show up,” she assured. “What’s important is finding a new hive.” 

Curiously eyeing the chestnut coloured beverage in her hands, Marianne missed the meaningful glance Griselda sent her way. She did, however, catch the awkward silence it provoked.

Looking up, she found herself the recipient of Griselda’s glee and Bog’s mortification.

“You going to try that, honey?” The old goblin nodded encouragingly. Beside her, Bog shook his head with wide, pleading eyes. 

Brows raised, Marianne shrugged. Never mind Griselda’s conspiratorial tint, Bog’s expression was as good as a challenge, and she’d made a point of never backing down from one after that fateful day.

Raising the goblet up in salute, the faery tipped the contents down her throat. She had enough time to catch Bog’s wince before a fiery burn consumed all thought and feeling.

“Stars and stems,” Marianne sputtered and cursed, eyes bugged and streaming with tears. Still, she’d swallowed the whole damn gulp. That was something.

Already, Griselda had bounded to her side and was patting her back with considerable force.

“Down your gullet, good lass,” the she-goblin exclaimed, and to Marianne’s mortification a cheer went up from the surrounding rabble. “That’ll put horns on your head.”

Now that the fire had faded, Marianne marvelled at the smoky flavour on her tongue and the tingles in her ears and fingers. Certainly the poitin was far cry from the soft nectar wine of the faery court.

“Wow,” she exclaimed though buzzing lips, wiping her face clean. “That was certainly something.”

Looking up, Marianne grinned at Bog’s askance expression, and braced herself as she downed another sip. It was much the same, but Marianne managed much less coughing. Still, Bog’s horror shifted to fond resignation, and the crackling edges of his anger had eased.

Which was what she’d wanted, ultimately.

Stepping closer, and ignoring Griselda’s snicker, Marianne offered Bog the goblet with a toothy grin. 

“Want to show me how it’s done, Bog King?”

His brows shot up and his cheeks puffed out in what looked like shock. Rattled, even, for Bog drew his arms and wings inward and fidgeted like a springling at their first dance. 

“Well, uh-”

Marianne faltered, at once unsure. Did he think it improper to share a cup? She hadn’t thought goblins to be sticklers about etiquette.

But Griselda was clapping her hands and pushing Marianne towards Bog; she admonished herself for again making assumptions. Her knees knocked into Bog’s legs, the goblet spilling over their hands as it was wedged between them. 

Bog looked very grave as he tangled their fingers together. Some kind of hush had fallen over the small space surrounding them, and the sky of his eyes were clear and kind.

“Tough girl,” murmured Bog, revenant as he traced her jaw with one finger. Hopeful. He was so close and she loved him, she loved him, she loved him.

Marianne licked her lips.

“Is this some kind of goblin thing I don’t know about?” Because Griselda had looked just too delighted at her offer, and no, Marianne hadn’t imagined the space and silence given by the goblins surrounding them.

“Ah promise, o’ sorts.” Bog’s voice was very thick, enough to give her some inkling of what the shared cup offered.

Marianne blinked slowly. She’d made a promise, once, and had one made to her. That promise had been broken and had almost broken her. What was she doing? Barely a night and a day of knowing Bog and every fibre, from wing to ear, wanted to make another to this grouchy, gentle goblin before her.

“A lasting sort of promise?” The Faery Heir managed to ask, heart tickling her ribs.

“Aye.”

“Huh.”

With her nail, Marianne flicked the bottom of the goblet. Tilting back her chin to stare at Bog through her lashes, she pursed her stained lips.

Flutters of ‘too soon, too soon’ caught her throat, and it was true. Had she not promised to guard herself against the whims of her generous heart? But Bog hovered over her, waiting and watching every flicker of her eyes.

This day, talk about a fateful day. She’d sung a battle-song, a heart-song, and now here was a promise to keep that true.

Only fools rushed in, but in her bones and blood Marianne knew for certain in a way she never had before. _Wild thing_ , her thoughts hummed. His long fingers were tightly wrapped around her own and the goblet.

“Listen here, Bog King,” Marianne scowled up at her lover, but her voice was dotted with emotion. Bog’s ears twitched. “I don’t intend on ever having my heart broken again. You drink this drink, and you hold to everything it entails, got it?”

“Sure as a sonnet,” promised Bog. “And you?”

“Tradition, ritual, whatever,” grimaced Marianne, biting her lip. “I know what I said, what I sung. That was a promise too, of sorts.”

“Marianne,” he began, and she watched his throat bob above his unfurling armour. “We dinnae have to, right now.”

There was a glimmer in Bog’s gaze that spoke mountains, and Marianne could read it just as easily as she read the air in flight. As he had read her hesitation.

“We’re not,” she told him with an impish grin, and pushed the cup towards his lips. “We’re just sharing a drink.” 

A distinct groan of frustration, made by the distinctive voice of Griselda, had the two lovers rolling their eyes with curled lips in unison. It softened the taught lines of feeling between them.

“One day, we will share another drink,” continued Marianne softly, determined to make sense of the clamour at her eardrums and in her blood. “And what we say then will be the same as what we feel now.”

“Sounds an awful lot like a promise, tough girl.” But before she could scold him, Bog had flung back his head to drain the rest of the poitin and left her gaping.

The goblin must have a throat of iron, though a watery sheen filmed his eyes when he came back to face her.

Vaguely, she was aware of the hoots and shouts about them, but at Bog’s wide and crooked smile, it didn’t much seem to matter.

\--

In the end, there had been very little that Bog and Marianne could do to stem the feasting that Griselda had set in motion.

“It’s for the swarm,” the short goblin yammered, dancing around in an excitement that had not abated. “Got to get the rabble geared up for. Oh, but I haven’t seen one in so long!”

Marianne laughed as Griselda twirled her with a force that belied her diminutive stature. The party was escalating at an almost frantic pace, a drumming rocking kind of music ruling the tempo. 

Bog had since dragged away his cheerful Snouters to hear their reports and told her not to let things get too out of hand. Really, at the rate it was going, Marianne had the distinct impression that she would be as effective as a matron herding springlings high on sugar.

“The swarm?” Her breath was scarce from dancing, with none of the reticence and regulation of the faery waltz.

But Griselda had squawked in mischief and winked very obviously, before passing Marianne off to Thang to partner.

The small, frog-like goblin certainly did not lack for enthusiasm, for all that he constantly tripped over his feet and Marianne’s. The small hands in hers were not at all slimy, disproving yet another common misconception of the Dark Forest. Marianne marvelled that she had ever been so strangled by fear at this marvellous, mottled place. 

Thang kicked out and jumped up half his height, grinning goofily. He kicked his feet again, and Marianne assisted his ascent with a well-timed throw and conspiratorial hoot to Stuff. His croaky little laugh aired away as Thang soared through the air. Stuff, a seasoned look of nonchalance on her lumpy face, caught her fellow with practised ease.

Marianne cackled at their expressions, violet wings flaring to lift her over the roiling dance.

One of the remaining soldiers, a Captain Algar, saw her alight, black and white wings flapping to follow her lead. Marianne waved him down; she merely wanted to survey this first, most august of diplomatic exchanges.

“Knocking about my subjects, now?” Bog’s drawl came from behind, and Marianne twirled in a lazy circle to face his dry look. “Very politic.”

“I thought it was part of the dance,” she replied coyly over her shoulder. 

Not taken by her masquerade of innocence, the Bog King buzzed forward with iridescent wings. Hooking her ankle with his clawed fingers, he darted up almost lazily to send Marianne spinning in a most ungainly fashion.

It only made her laugh heartily, letting the momentum buoy her through the air.

Bog said nothing to that, just hovered placidly as Marianne caught her breath. When she finally rolled right way up, it was to see his soft smile falter.

“What is it?” All at once worried, Marianne fluttered down to meet him.

“It can’t be taken back now,” he said gruffly, shaking his head almost mournfully.

A bolt of fear shot like ice through her veins, and the celebratory clamour drowned into white noise as Marianne stared in horror at Bog’s contemplation. Even her rhythm faltered and she dropped, mouth agape and heart tight.

Was this the cup thing?

Had she been too forward? Roland had always-

Startled by her drop, Bog’s face paled to look on hers.

“The swarm,” he exclaimed at once, darting down to hover close. “The goblins have been right riled now, the swarm must happen now. I dinnae mean-“

Marianne had clamped her hands over her mouth, ears pulled back in shock at the strength of her reaction as Bog babbled apologies. His shoulder plates were flared and flicking, eyes wide to implore her to his meaning.

Her heart was still racing from the fear of it. Of him regretting her.

But she’d jumped to a conclusion, again, because she was afraid. Because already she was so invested in this new thing she had with the Bog King. Because-

“Marianne,” Bog’s voice broke through her self-scouring recrimination, one hand outstretched and steady. “I would take back nothing from you.”

“I know,” she replied, but her voice was small behind her fingers. Sucking in air to steady her breath and banish the last of her panic, Marianne lowered her hands and blew a lock of her fringe from her eyes. “I am so stupid.”

“No,” was his only soft objection, full of feeling. Bog shook his head in self-recrimination and watched her worriedly. The lines around his eyes only eased when she extended a hand to meet his waiting one.

His waiting palm was warm, and solid and she smiled at the callouses on his palms. The past, and all its pain, was behind them, for all that the scars remained. They could be weathered, and woven into something better.

“So,” Marianne said, taking a deep breath as Bog squeezed her fingers tight enough to make her bones bruise. “Tell me about this swarm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My word, any time I try and actually progress the story, I get distract by Bog and Marianne :P I'm just enamoured with how this new love would be so raw for both of them, especially just post-film. Hopefully you're not all getting bored, and the balance between story progress, romance and world building is still interesting.
> 
> Thank you for sticking by, the next few chapters are near completion, so hopefully I can avoid any more long hiatus's. 
> 
> Glossary:   
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Night Blighty: Elf folk belief, a guardian of souls.”  
> Poitin: Potent goblin drink.  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Swarm: Rare event of goblin cohesion in hunting out a new hive  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	10. Within his bending sickle's compass come

“Marianne, what’s going on?” 

Turning from where she was supervising Lizzie the…Lizard being winched up over the cliff by elves and faeries who were only, at best, tipsy, Marianne flatly stared at the prisoner who had made the inquiry.

Roland’s crony, Millet, did not look away from where he was bound next to Sunny. Now unarmoured apart from his breastplate, the faery’s face was streaked with sweat from supposedly helping wind the gears for the gondola lift. Others helping rotate the cable that bore up Field-folk scowled in his direction, and Marianne noticed Sunny wince as he tried to pick up the slack of his fellow prisoner.

“That’s ‘Princess’ to you, convict,” she all but snarled. 

The soldier minding the prisoners tugged on Millet’s chains, and the faery drooped as he returned to his task.

Jaw clenched, Marianne shook off the lingering fury at her shoulders. At the risk of them being injured, she’d agreed to safe-guard Bog’s prisoners until he could send someone back for them. Not that she would tell either of them that.

Petty; perhaps as a princess she should be above such small victories. But then Marianne recalled the taste of burnt sugar as pink dust clogged the air, and that pointy ball of rage rolled in her chest and tore open her guts to fury.

A prickle tickled her neck, and Marianne blinked to find herself the object of Sunny’s pained and pensive gaze.

His betrayal hurt her, and not just for Dawn. They’d known Sunny all their lives.

He shuddered at the narrowing of her eyes, but the small elf did not look away. Just twisted his mouth into a painful bent line, freckles stark across his nose and cheek.

Marianne had pinched those cheeks, ruffled that wiry hair with the fondness of a sister.

Sunny offered half a shrug, lashes thick on his downcast gaze as he returned to pushing the pulley. He’d beamed at her heart-song, the recent memory fluttered through the anger; had tried so hard to save Dawn in the collapse.

There was no easy fix to this.

Below, shouts came as the lizard wiggled uneasily in her sling. Angling her wings, the Faery Heir flew down to where Pare hung onto the lizard’s back, rubbing her scaly neck with his meaty hands.

“Doing ok?” Marianne asked, one wary eye on where Lizzie’s mouth overextended in discontent. One beady eye rolled back, clear indication that neither had forgotten their skirmish from yesterday.

Pare rumbled an impossibly deep chuckle and patted the lizard.

“She’s alright,” he intoned. “Not too fond of heights.”

Marianne grunted at that, noting the splayed set of Lizzie’s toes and her gaping maw of a mouth. That it was the Love Potion that had rendered the fearsome reptile into supplicant putty under Pare and Sunny’s hands sat ill with her. Not that Marianne minded that she was no longer trying to eat her people, but it was still off.

Even a lizard deserved autonomy of its own feelings. 

“You’ll be up soon,” she assured Pare.

He nodded amiably.

Marianne nodded shortly and flew back up to the ledge that had once lead to the Bog King’s toothy entrance. The afternoon light gentled the labour, but all were worn and wanting from the long night and day of reckoning.

Many of her folk were already up, stumbling and giggling from the liquor as they packed and leaf-wrapped the excess stores. As it had been told, goblins could only carry so much when swarming. The rest was ferreted away into hiding until it could be later collected. 

Still, the current major endeavour was to get the Field-folk clear. According to Bog, things could get…hectic.

“But how will I know how to find you?” Marianne had asked. There had been so many more things she’d wanted to ask, to say. It was too soon to leave him; they’d only just found each other.

“Ah’ll send word,” Bog had promised. “But the swarm, and the settling, will take time. ‘Sides, ye could always invade my kingdom again.”

“It’s a date, tough guy.”

Below, on the ruin of the old fortress, a strange and thrilling static sparked through each and every goblin. Proud on a perch, Bog was roaring with gusto as the goblins jittered and gathered up their salvage and stores from their old home. Animal teeth, wire thorn lights and other valuable materials were stacked on clumsy carts. A flock of dragonflies, herded back to from their flight, were stocked and tended to around him.

Verbally bludgeoning his people into organisation was about all he could do, excited as they all were. Not that that stopped him from levelling a kick at Thang, Marianne observed. Bog had told her that if and when he started the calling, the swarm would begin in earnest.

It was her job to make sure none of her folk got trampled in the ensuring organised chaos. 

“I think it should be starting soon,” Marianne murmured, mostly to herself.

“We’ll be fine, Princess,” intoned Pare, solemn and kind. 

She nodded again, gave Lizzie a hesitant pat and swept her violet wings up to ascend back topside.

Elves were being unloaded from the wooden gondola and the remaining faeries groundside flew up bearing bundles of relics and remains. 

The soldiers she’d sent in search of Roland had not returned, but neither had any of their goblin counterparts. 

Marianne grimaced; Roland’s slippery talent was in evading any kind of accountability. Her father had assured her that he would keep the Thorn-guard on high alert, she wouldn’t put it past the scumbag to charm his way out of trouble.

Shaking out her fists, Marianne glided over to the love-dusted denizens, still crooning softly to one another. She hadn’t had much of a chance to properly take note of them all, and truth had it, Marianne hadn’t prioritised it. The gloopy way they fawned over one another was nauseating. 

Still, both Bog and she had agreed that the Fields were probably better suited to…enduring them.

The three that had come down to investigate Griselda’s rapacious celebrations had since returned to their loves. Still silly and singing, of course, but there was a different note to their tune. The harmonies no longer seamlessly matched and their lyrics sometimes stumbled. Occasionally, the mushroom would fall into whispers and the strangely familiar faery would pause in her caresses of the frog’s snout.

Curious.

A ripple of anticipation reverberated through the crowd, and Marianne set down on the cliff to run over to the ledge. Lower, midst the damp wood and worn thorns, every goblin shuddered and fanned out in a large molten circle. The dragonflies whirred their wings, handlers perched with straight backs and flushed faces. And Bog-

Marianne bit her bottom lip to hide her smile.

But he was magnificent.

Bog was tall and towering, clutching his staff in both hands as he loomed menacingly over his hoard. Armour stark and sharp, long nose high like a lark, he looked every inch the nightmare she’d once believed him to be. 

_“I got ta get out,”_ he began, leer long and luscious as his voice boomed like a thunderhead. _“I gotta break it out now.”_

There was something in his tone that made her spine shiver. The elves and faeries about her were stunned silent at the strange reverence every single goblin paid to their king. Then with a flick of his wings, Bog snapped out his staff, top glinting like an amber star. It circled the hoard, and Marianne saw a thrilled smirk slice over his face.

 _“Like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes!”_ His vocals snapped out and over like a whip-crack. Goblin music, in all its raucous cacophony, roared to life as Bog belted out his will. _“When the night is over, like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone-gone-gone.”_

 _“Like a bat out of hell, I'll be gone when the morning comes!”_ Jitters ran up her arms and legs as the goblins screeched in response as Bog repeated the verse. Griselda had climber atop one of the larger goblins and was waving in almost hysteric enthusiasm. No doubt fuelled by the poitin and Bog’s particular brand of charisma, Marianne supposed wryly.

 _“But when the day is done, and the sun goes down,”_ Bog leapt into the air, sweeping down and around his hooting audience as they screamed along. _“And the moonlight's shining through-“_

But it wasn’t random. Bog was flying in a pattern, and the goblins were falling into formation.

 _“Then like a sinner before the gates of heaven,”_ with the flourish of a showman, Bog flipped in the air, and Marianne was shocked if he didn’t send a hot and heavy glance and a pointed finger her way. _“I'll come crawling on back to you!”_

Pressing her hands to her flaming cheeks, Marianne tried not to squeak. The fidget of her wings gave her away, but Bog had already returned to fray, and was whipping up the fervour.

 _“I'm gonna hit the highway like a battering ram, on a silver black dragonfly,”_ Bog bellowed, weaving again and again over and around his people. The dragonflies rose with a hum, carrying goblin and cargo alike. _“When the life-blood is hot and the belly hungry, and we're all about to see the light.”_

Spinning like a vortex, Bog shot straight up.

 _“Nothing ever grows in this rotting old hole,”_ Bog howled, wings snapping out and staff flashing. _“And everything is stunted and lost.”_

And the goblins swarmed. 

It was the only way to describe the snowmelt of movement crashed and crawled and spiralled, a mirror of the Bog King’s flight.

 _“And nothing really rocks,”_ he barked out with a sneer. _“And nothing really rolls, and nothing's ever worth the cost!”_

The elves around her were cheering on the magnetic performance. Even Marianne let out a whoop, before catching herself. 

Bog swooped again, and now his voice was lower, calling and cajoling the goblins to contribute.

_“And I know that I'm damned if I never get out, and maybe I'm damned if I do.”_

And they were. The goblins were swarming, jumping and leaping as Bog lead them in an outward spiral.

_“But with every other beat I've got left in my heart, you know I'd rather be damned with you!”_

Still in flight, mounted dragonflies at his heel and a hoard at his belly, Marianne saw now how Bog was leading them. Singing them into cohesion. The robust carts that carried what they could were bumped and bustled, and dips and cracks and foliage made the path less then smooth, but the swarm held together.

 _“Well, if I gotta be damned you know I wanna be damned, dancing through the night with you.”_ The swarm circled back one last time. _“Gotta be damned, you know I wanna be damned—“_

Marianne’s heart leapt as Bog flew past, eyes bright and teeth baring, staff up to his mouth as he and the swarm _sung to her._

 _“Gotta be damned, you know I wanna be damned,”_ the clamour of voices called, and Marianne almost leapt right up to join him. 

_“Dancing through the night—_

_Dancing through the night—_

_Dancing through the night with you!”_

And then the swarm unfurled and curled and snapped away, surging like water through fern and branch and rock. Like a bat out of hell.

“Huh,” huffed Marianne, gazing in awe at the retreat, blood hot and fast at her temples. Both of them had their duty. Her eyes felt wet, to see him fly away so, but she smiled.

It had all been in the song, really.

“Like a sinner before the gates of heaven,” Marianne hummed quietly to herself, as the chant of the swarm faded into the towering trees of the forest. “I'll come crawling on back to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha this chapter was so much fun to write! The song was, of course, 'Bat outta hell' by Meatloaf! I honestly never thought I would end up incorporating songs in this fic as much as I am. Hopefully it's not too odd to read, and listening to Meatloaf put me in such an amped mood :P
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Glossary  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Night Blighty: Elf folk belief, a guardian of souls.”  
> Poitin: Potent goblin drink.  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Swarm: Rare event of goblin cohesion in hunting out a new hive  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


	11. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks

Left in the wake of an event Marianne was fairly sure had never been witnessed by elf or faery alike, her small group let out a collective sigh. Like wings left suddenly empty of wind. The clearing seemed suddenly bare, so bereft of the vibrancy of the goblins. Small chatter and awkward coughs fought the sudden silence to little effect.

For herself, the heart of the Faery Heir beat as hurriedly as it had when she’d smashed through a skylight, screaming her challenge to the Almighty Bog King.

Sighing, Marianne ran a distracted hand through her hair, only to jump as it caught on winding stems and crumpled petals. Dawn’s flower crown, and she had forgotten she was wearing it entirely.

Well, she was a princess. 

“Alright,” hands on her hips, Marianne turned to the shuffling crowd. As much as she wanted to chase after her lover, she could better serve him here. “Who’s ready to head home?”

A good humoured cheer answered her; Marianne was not blind to the long labours recent events had induced. Still, their work was not yet done.

Stretching out her wine-dark wings, she scanned the dusty faces of the faery soldiers. Most were only partially armoured; the heat of the day proving it more of a hindrance than a help. Especially now they were so set for peace. 

“Captain Algar,” she called, spying a flushed, hazel-hued face. “Would you select two of your finest soldiers to remain here to await our own still searching for the fugitive Roland?”

“Yes, Princess!” The soldier in question thumped a fist over his heart and bowed deeply.

“Good,” Marianne turned her determined gaze to the hefty elf still soothing the lizard. “Pare? I would that you and your…friend also remain. We are to hold the Bog King’s prisoners until someone can be spared to fetch them.”

The elf slid his gaze from a forlorn looking Sunny back to Marianne with deliberate care, and Pare nodded firmly.

“Good,” she approved, noting the mess of wreckage that had been carted up the gondola. “The rest of you, finish storing the salvage. You will leave within the glow-mark.”

Her words were met with shuffling mild enthusiasm.

“And if you’re lucky, I’ll permit the remainder of the poitin to be consumed en-route.”

The ruddy faces of elves and faeries all lit up, and the scramble to task began again in earnest. There were nuts and dried berries to clean and wrap, lichen-cloth to bundle, ironbark scraps to secure and all kind of odds and ends to still haul up the cliff.

“Working hard to make a living,” began yet another elf song as the gondola creaked back into motion. “Bringing shelter from the rain-“

Shaking her head, Marianne made to step towards the love-dusted folk before a voice hailed her.

“Princess,” Captain Algar had fought his way through the crowd to stand at attention before her.

Frowning, Marianne raised a quizzical brow. 

“Will you not be travelling back to the Fields with the rest of us?” The question was phrased very particularly and very precisely. Marianne was almost envious of the delicacy with which Algar delivered it; his black and white wings did not even twitch.

“No, Captain,” she replied firmly, watching as the plump end of his nose lifted. The soldier was rather cannier than she’d hoped. “I will remain here until the rest of our people return, and ensure the safe transfer of the prisoners.”

Algar’s lips thinned, and Marianne waited with folded arms. 

“Your father, the King,” he said with perfect neutrality, “bid me to ensure your safe return.”

A wince almost made it to her face. Of course King Dagda had ordered such.

“Which is why,” Marianne drawled, “I asked for two of your best soldiers to remain.”

It wasn’t; Marianne had wanted people to keep an eye on Millet and Sunny while she poked around the ruined fortress some more. Somewhere in all that rotted wood, her sword was buried.

Not that she thought Sunny would make any serious bid to flee. One look at his disheartened expression told the reams of his regret. Millet, on the other hand, had not even that much virtue to his character.

And yet, that was not the whole truth either; Marianne did not want to leave the Dark Forest. So much had happened, to return the Fields might render it all a dream. Algar looked thoughtful at her response.

“As you wish, Princess,” he said finally, eyes glinting with something like amusement.

Marianne made no effort to hide her snort; the prim and proper protocol types always rubbed her raw. Nothing but patronising condescension as they humoured a young princess begging to join their drills. The amusement had worn thin the older she grew and more skilled she became.

Never mind; she had defied and surpassed them all the same.

“I do.” Flaring her imperious wings, Marianne leapt to the air and circled the wide ledge so as to better direct this last work.

\--

 

From her perch on a protruding tree-root, Marianne could survey the breadth of the site that had once been whispered in dread utterances to naughty springlings who broke the rules.

It was no longer the stuff of night terrors; now the afternoon sun dappled across the ruinous tree-trunk, lending an air innocuous melancholy. 

Huffing, Marianne twisted the grass stalks in her hands and tried to grant herself patience.

Captain Algar, in all his honourable virtue, had elected to remain in the Dark Forest alongside his princess for the foreseeable future. Truly, Marianne was not surprised. At least the soldier had not tried to beseech her again to turn for home. He and his comrade had also found high vantage points with which to welcome anything that might care to approach.

Sunny and Millet, still bound loosely together, sat on the ledge under the watchful eye of Pare and Lizzie.

Or, Millet was under scrutiny. Sunny was under pains to scratch the amorous lizard’s scaly belly as she writhed in delight. The sight was still baffling, and did nothing to quell the uneasy roil in Marianne’s gut.

Roland had still not been found. Her soldiers had returned over a glow-mark ago, red-faced and weary as they made their report. Algar had watched her face keenly, and Marianne had not been able to hide the deep scowl it inspired. Grinding her teeth had done little to ease her mood; the love potion and its remains had not been located either. 

Still, Roland’s craftiness was no fault of the soldiers, and she’d nodded as she thanked them, offering food and drink before dismissing them back to the Fields.

Reed and grass cut into her slender fingers as Marianne tried to wind together the mismatched petals of her absent-minded gathering. She had not the skill of delicate decoration; her particular aesthetic had always been deemed eccentric even when Marianne had attempted to temper her passions. 

The stems kept slipping as her scowl grew.

“Mind your own matters, elf!”

The loud shout made her ears twitch and sprang her gaze up to where Sunny and Millet were held. They stood as if in a tableau; Sunny scrabbling away as Millet drew back a hand to strike as Pare reached forward to break up the clamour.

With a flash of her violet wings, Marianne had shot between them.

“Hey!” Eyes aflame, she battered away the hapless prisoner’s fist. “Cut it out or I’ll feed you to the lizard!”

Millet’s acorn eyes were wide as he shrank away from the fierce Faery Heir.

Behind her, Sunny gasped in relief. Lips twisted to a frown, Marianne released the faery’s hand; he scuttled back, wings fluttering with unease. She had not heard what Sunny had said to draw such a reaction, but with Roland’s crony, who could say? 

In the shadow of the Dark Forest and without the clamour of both elves and goblins, the echo of the outburst was stark against the quiet. From his lookout, Captain Algar inclined his head in observation. Somewhere, Lizzie stamped impatiently.

A bitter sneer twisted Millet’s expression from fear to fury, and Marianne straightened so as to better bear the brunt of it.

“What does it matter?” Millet pouted sourly through dirt and dust. “The goblins are going to eat us anyway. Be kinder to kill us now.”

“Oh hush,” scoffed Marianne, rolling her eyes at the melodrama. “You’re Field-folk. They won’t touch you until Roland’s found.”

Her offhand response threw him; his anger shrivelled into useless posture, and the shamed faery cringed into himself.

“And after that?” Millet demanded, or rather, whined.

Perhaps it was cruel of her to torment him so, but a razor edged smile cut through Marianne’s expression. With a single step forward, she grinned her best.

“That depends on how much you annoy me,” Marianne said, and flicked his forehead.

Cross-eyed to catch the action, Millet yelped indignantly and bent away. Despite his cowering, Marianne struggled to find pity to spare. Oh, she didn’t wish any of the terrible trio’s death. That did not mean that a fury fire did not burn at her heart for the harm they had done.

Millet stayed curled on his side, as behind him Pare turned to tending the agitated lizard. Marianne raised a brow and Pare’s grateful glance, and wondered if the large elf was surprised at her intervention.

“Thanks, Marianne.” Sunny’s voice came small and thready behind her knee.

Air sighed through her teeth, and Marianne hung loose her shoulders. If only her feelings towards Sunny were so simple.

“I meant it, you know,” Marianne made herself say, fists tight even as she turned to look on him. “You are Field folk. I won’t let Bog forget that.”

Freckles danced across his downturned cheeks, and there his warm eyes were earnest as ever. A twist of hurt bent in her heart, and Marianne had to remind herself that no matter her sense of betrayal, Dawn’s was felt ten-fold.

“But why?”

Huffing, Marianne slumped to sit beside him. Hooking one leg over the edge of the cliff, she studies his uncertainty and his misery before pressing her lips into a pout. About them, the clearing was eerie in its quiet.

“You’re my folk,” Marianne reaffirmed with a curt nod. “My responsibility. Besides, Dawn would be crushed if a goblin ate you.”

“She shouldn’t,” Sunny lamented. From the corner of her eye, Marianne saw him stoop to the ground, hand outstretched. “She’d be better of forgetting I ever existed.”

What could she say? Marianne knew how it hurt to have your heart betray you, and Dawn was so young. Such a thing could smother her sister’s bright spark before it had even a chance to burn. 

“Huh.” Shooting her anxious glances, Sunny edged down to sit at her side. His large hands cradled something in his lap. “It’s strange.”

Marianne did not turn to face him directly. A small part of her wanted to push the elf off the edge of the slope. A part of her just wanted her sister’s friend back. 

“When she made the potion, Plum said something about ‘unforeseen consequences’.” Sunny shrugged at her sceptical look. “Guess this was all pretty unforeseeable.”

“Who could?” Marianne quipped, a touch of bitter on her tongue.

To her surprise, Sunny chuckled, but his focus was still on the thing in his hands.

“A lizard fell in love with me. Dawn finally noticed me.” Sunny listed off the bizarre events that now bent the shape of their lives crooked, almost in wonder. “Marianne, you kissed the Bog King!” 

A furl of anger clawed at her throat, and Marianne shot a glare as sharp at glass towards the small elf. His returning grin was placating in its rueful resignation of whatever punishment she saw fit to divvy on him. The corner of her mouth dipped and her temper cooled; she’d never thought to be the subject for that kind of look. That kind of fear.

With the Faery Crown came responsibility.

Something of her thoughts must have struck her face, for Sunny quickly dipped his gaze and seized a breath. 

“Are you still mad at me?” His voice sounded so odd.

“Yes,” Marianne frowned and then stared out at the trees that blotted out the sun and sky. “But I know Roland. How he…twists things.”

She sighed, and felt the creak and wheeze of her bruised ribs and tender skin. Marks that would fade, and Marianne wondered what it meant that she and Bog had fallen in love through fighting. It was nothing like gallant courting Roland had won her over with.

Just the thought made her teeth grind. It was true, though; Roland’s charm had seemingly dazzled every faery in the Fields. Even her.

A part of Marianne still hated herself for that.

Sunny shivered with a small but definite sniffle, and Marianne looked down at the elf with a new wash of pity. How long would Sunny pierce himself with his own guilt? 

It was no way to live.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” she promised without a second thought. 

Sunny’s deep-eyed and startled stare shook her, for all its earnest surprise. Shaking it off, Marianne scowled at her sister’s erstwhile sweetheart. 

“No need to look so shocked,” she said through clenched teeth. Marianne had meant it when she’d said they were her folk.

Millet, Sunny. Even Roland. Despite it all, she was their princess.

“No!” Sunny spluttered. “I just…after everything. Thanks.”

“Hmph.”

She pretended not to notice his gratitude and relief.

Something crashed far away through the foliage; the din of it made Marianne’s ears twitch. It sounded again, and closer to the wide ledge they were seated on. Marianne scrambled to her feet. Already the soldiers were upright and ready, and a low gurgle erupted from Lizzie’s gullet.

An audible gulp came from beside her; Sunny, unsteady and unsure, darted worried glances between her and the thing approaching. Marianne waved him back, lightly resting a hand on the pommel of her borrowed sword.

Another crash, and a fast and freckled toad bounded out of a fern forest and onto the ledge her retinue now circled warily. Somewhere, Millet whimpered.

The Faery Heir bared her teeth; it was not unheard of for unwary folk to be snapped up by larger toads. And this one was a behemoth.

But it was not alone. 

Perched atop it was a small, scale-backed goblin with scrawny arms beating at the toad’s eyes and a long, singular horn jutting out from its forehead.

That was… Marianne gaped as the small creature leapt off the toad’s snout to stand defiantly before them all.

Madness. What kind of creature turned their back to a toad?

She shared a dubious glance with Algar, but before either of the faeries could speak, the small, hunched goblin spoke up in a voice high enough to make petals curl.

“Uuuuh, hey,” piped the new arrival. The ugly, old toad at their back blinked slowly and puffed out its throat. “You the Princess Bride?”

“That would be me,” Marianne found her voice and stepped forward, hands on her hips to show her courage. 

“Wait,” Sunny exclaimed at the same time. “Bride?”

Setting her jaw, Marianne ignored him. Ignored the very particular and peculiar title she’d seemingly been anointed with; that massive amphibian made her tense. She hoped she looked as calm and unruffled as she most certainly was not. 

“Oh good,” the goblin said with a delicate cough. “Name’s Leticia. I’m here for the villains who broke the Bog King’s lair?” 

“Bog sent you?” Marianne blinked at the small, hunched figure. “Alone?”

“Yup. Well,” Leticia’s spindly little fingers shuffled. “Aside from Humperdinck here.”

“That’s the…uh…” 

She made a vague gesture with one hand towards the ponderous lump of muscle and slime that was very much at the forefront of her concentration. Apparently the toad had a name; and Marianne thought the Dark Forest was done surprising her.

“Sure,” the goblin chirped cheerily, thumping a hand to their chest. “It’s why I was sent. Best toad wrangler and frog hunter this side of the Black Road.”

To her right, Sunny emitted a high pitched noise that was almost a giggle, but it was really more of a whimper.

“Oh.” Marianne pressed her lips together. “You hunt frogs?”

“It’s a hobby.” Leticia shrugged, as much as they could manage under the curved carapace. Marianne fought the manic urge to giggle.

Dust rose, and she looked up to find a restless lizard pushing her scaly head at Pare. Captain Algar and his second lingered tense and ready in the air, and Millet remained a pathetic crumpled shape in the dirt.

The toad simply stared. Its handler shuffled their feet.

Somewhere a beetle buzzed.

Right. Marianne almost hit herself at her denseness; they were all waiting for her direction. 

Some princess, she thought ruefully. Taking a deep breath, the Faery Heir strode to the agitated Leticia and bent forward to offer her hand.

“Well then,” Marianne beamed, ignoring the ruffled looks of her soldiers as the goblin tentatively gripped her fingers. “It is lovely to meet you. And, uh, Humperdinck was it? Thank you for…coming all this way.”

Leticia’s beady eyes shone, looking giddy with the force of the handshake. Marianne gulped and eased it down. 

“Oh, he and I are happy to help.” They elbowed the toad’s bulging neck. Its eyes rolled in displeasure. “Come and be properly introduced!”

“What?” 

Marianne was not quite quick enough to jerk away from Leticia’s sharp grip. She stumbled as the goblin dragged her forward.

“Princess!”

“Marianne!”

“Humperdinck!” Leticia screeched in a tone high enough to challenge Griselda. “This is the Princess Bride. Say hello.”

Great, yellow eyes ponderous swivelled around and down to land on her. It-Humperdinck- was very large this close. A rapid flutter in Marianne’s chest demanded that she flee. Her palms ached to draw her sword.

Little Leticia beamed up, almost catching Marianne with their long horn as they swivelled to face her.

Fending off the goblin horn, the Faery Heir balefully studied the giant, faery eating, slimy monster and tried to pull up a smile.

“Don’t be shy,” assured Leticia, dragging one of Marianne’s hands to pet the beast’s thick hide. Something oozed at the contact. “He don’t bite. Much.” 

“Um,” Marianne gulped. “A pleasure?”

A deep rumble from the pit of the toad’s belly was the only response. She quickly withdrew her hand and wondered if it would be rude to wipe the slime off on her pants.

“Right.” Taking a deep breath, Marianne eyed the harried looking group left to her. “My turn, I suppose.”

With a hop, skip and a jump, Marianne backed away from the amphibian definitely eyeing her wings suspiciously and tried not to make it look like a retreat. It was only a partial success. Algar looked as if he were about to faint.

“Leticia the frog hunter,” she began in a loud voice. “Meet your charges, Millet and Sunny. Their guards, Captain Algar and company, and their minders, Pare and Lizzie.” 

The faeries clinked in the iron-bark armour, the good captain clearly annoyed at her introduction. Pare scratched the back of his neck. Only Sunny attempted a weak, little wave. Leticia rubbed her hands together.

“Just the two?”

“It won’t be too much to handle?” Marianne asked. She knew that elves often forwent the saddle and harness of respectable faery cavalry. Goblins, riding toads no less, was way out of her realm of knowledge.

“Oh no!” Leticia bounced surprisingly high on her spindly legs. “We won’t let them fall.”

“I’m doomed,” moaned Millet. Marianne rolled her eyes. 

“Well, I don’t envy you having to put up with that nonsense the whole way back,” she exclaimed, waving over Sunny. 

Much to her surprise, Leticia only giggled.

“Between losing out on a royal marriage to a faery, and having a tree collapse in on me on account of an elf?” Her beady eyes slid slyly to meet Marianne’s. “Figured this day could only get better.”

“Hah.” It took a moment for everything the goblin had said to properly register. “Wait-“

Leticia chirped and skipped aside. A pathetic keen cut through the air, and Marianne scowled as she turned back.

Predictably, Millet required some prodding to approach. The faery flapped his mottled wings half-heartedly as the good Captain grabbed his arm and dragged him over. She just barely held back from stomping over to haul Millet over by the ear.

A snicker came from the toad’s side, and Marianne turned attention back to Leticia. The expression on the small goblin’s face was inscrutable, and Marianne felt a pang of embarrassment for the disgraceful display. Her people had not all acted admirably today.

It was not just her people she would have to sell this new peace to; she would do well not to forget that.

Sunny, at least, was putting on a brave show. Pare laid a solid hand on his shoulder as Lizzie sat hunched over and shooting the toad filthy looks. For all intent and purposes, the lizard was sulking. Unbelievable.

“Take care of Lizzie, Pare,” Sunny said, clasping his friend’s hand.

“Count on me,” Pare rumbled like a river. Marianne had to look away at the glimmer in his warm eyes.

She fixed Millet, still hanging in Algar’s grip, with a hard stare and brandished a pointed finger at him.

“If you even think of making trouble,” Marianne hissed through her teeth. “I’ll make the Bog King look like a butterfly, got it?”

Millet’s bottom lip quavered, but he managed a quick, if furtive nod.

She held his eyes a moment longer, making sure to drive the point home. Marianne would not have any more of her folk cause Bog any more grief. She would not. She made sure 

Millet knew it too before stepping back to let Algar bundle him atop the toad.

“Marianne?” It was Sunny, sweet and sad and shaking when she turned to him.

A part of her snarled, because it was wrong; that the elf she’d known since childhood should now be swept away in chains to an unknown place. Dawn would be so torn, as 

Marianne herself was so torn. The desire to sweep him into a fierce hug warred with the urge to smack his head for ever being so stupid as to try to love-dust her sister.

And it made her feel helpless, and bitter, and that had always made her angry.

“Sunny,” Marianne acknowledged, feeling her wings flare out in expression. 

“Goodbye, I guess.” He tried valiantly to smile, but it was frayed at the edges. That tore her up even more.

“I guess,” Marianne replied stiffly, and then faltered. Her fingers flexed and her brow fell to a familiar frown, though it was not one of anger. “You…take care.” 

“Yeah, you too.” Sunny picked at the wrappings over his hands, before letting out a sharp half laugh. “Everything will be alright, yeah?”

Heat prickled at the corner of Marianne’s eyes, and she hated that. Hated how determined Sunny was to seem brave. How he did deserve some of the suffering for his foolish, ill-thought gamble.

Hated that she still cared. Knew that Dawn did too.

“Alright,” affirmed the Faery Heir, nodding decisively as she forced a toothy smile. “We’ll see you again in no time.”

“Yeah?” His own mouth wobbled at her acknowledgement.

“Yes.” 

With a deep breath, Sunny steeled his shoulders, and leapt up onto Humperdinck of his own accord.

“Alright,” he called out, brighter and braver than she’d ever seen him. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Algar glared even as Marianne smiled in response, genuine this time. Pare chuckled heartily, if a little wetly, and raised a hand in goodbye. The ungraceful faery already slung over the toad’s back sniffled.

“Well, this has been fun,” a high voice squeaked at her elbow. Leticia beamed up at Marianne, long horn narrowly missing poking out the faery’s eye as the goblin shifted from foot to foot.

“Hasn’t it just?” Marianne let out a bark of laughter that made her ribs ache. Above them the sun was bright and warm. 

Holding out her hand, Marianne clasped Leticia’s own in a fierce and friendly grip.

“You take care, Master Toad Wrangler,” said the Faery Heir, turning the gesture into a gallant and gracious bow. “Give the Bog King my most gracious regards.”

“You too, Princess Bride,” returned the cheerful goblin, before scrambling up the stoic toad like a squirrel. 

The girth of Humperdinck’s gullet expanded and contracted, and Marianne stepped away from the beast’s sheer size. The great bulk shifted, and it seemed almost monstrous that any folk should ride him so easily. Sunny, she noted, looked far more at ease than Marianne felt.

Her fingers twitched for her sword, but she offered up a salute instead.

Leticia returned it from atop Humperdinck’s head.

“Griselda’s madder than a March fly for a wedding. She must have thrown every she-goblin in the forest at the King,” they chirped cheerfully. “Don’t make her wait much longer. For all our sakes.”

With that, the goblin let out a click and whistle, and spurred her steed into action. Marianne was left with mouth agape and cheeks flushed as dust flew into the air and foliage crashed in Humperdinck’s wake.

And they were gone. Like a dream.

“Alright,” Marianne breathed, one hand going to her hair to finger the flower crown still caught there. 

There was work to do if she was to meet Bog again with her head held high. Her sword was still lost to rubble, and there was a half-crafted boutonniere tucked into her pocket and a wild flower crown on her head, and all things considered that was not too bad a deal.

Facing Pare, the lizard, Captain Algar and his second, Marianne let slip her most determined grin and flared her royal wings.

“Time to go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aha this took ages to write! Honestly, it's a bit of a filler, but 1) I wanted to show Marianne being more of a leader and 2) I really wanted to bring in one of Bog's former suitors :P
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed my waffling.
> 
>  
> 
> Glossary  
> Bogle: Smaller goblins like Stuff  
> Greebles: Stouter goblins, like Thang  
> Heart-song: A song sung by faeries in love. Very hard to fake.  
> Hoppers: Frog-like goblins  
> Ironbark: Faery metal, or wood manipulated to look and act like metal  
> Night Blighty: Elf folk belief, a guardian of souls.”  
> Poitin: Potent goblin drink.  
> Rose Court: A court of faery and elven notables, headed by the Faery King, to administer law and justice.  
> Rough-backs: Larger goblins, like Brutus  
> Snouters: Goblins with snouts  
> Springlings: Faery term for children  
> Swarm: Rare event of goblin cohesion in hunting out a new hive  
> Thorn-guard: The Faery King’s personal guard.


End file.
